Moshe

by Adrien Leduc

three.”

  Moshe hit the pads in rapid succession. Left, right, left. Centre, left, right. Uppercut, right, left. Right hook, left jab, centre.

  “One, two, three. Good. Better. One, two, three. Again. Keep your hands up.”

  With just one week to go until his big fight with James Cooy, Moshe began training every day. When Lenny was busy with other members, Dinardo or his older brother Paolo would train him. Short, stocky, and just sixteen, Paolo could hit harder than most grown men and was set to begin competitive boxing in the Spring.

  “Careful what you take away from him though,” Lenny cautioned one afternoon. “Paolo’s a big kid. Hits hard. Built like a tank. In the animal kingdom he’s the lumbering bear and you’re the pesky mosquito. Your job is to annoy the bear. Pester him. Tire him out. And once you’ve worn him down, move in. Two or three combos and he should hit the mat.”

  Moshe nodded.

  “Good. Now. Let’s work on that right hook. You’re still not following through all the way.”

  The day before the fight, news of the pending bout between Silverstein “the Jewish kid” and “Knuckles” Cooy had reached headline proportions at Fourth Avenue Middle School as well as at other schools in the area.

  “It’s gonna be no contest. Have you seen Cooy?”

  “I heard that Jewish kid’s been taking boxing lessons.”

  “My friends at Saint Anthony’s are coming to see it!”

  “Cooy versus Silverstein! Ten to one odds! Place your bets!”

  “I hope it goes,” said Dinardo as he and Moshe walked to Lenny’s. “All this attention. Teachers might break it up. I’ve seen that happen loads of times.”

  Moshe nodded, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. He’d never been in a fist fight before - well - he’d been on the receiving end of one. But he’d never punched someone.

  “You know my brother’s coming, eh? In case Cooy or one of his crew try anything funny.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Moshe wasn’t sure whether Paolo Dinardo’s presence was supposed to make him feel relief or more anxious. How bad would it be? It couldn’t be any worse than the beatings he’d received before. Still, the elder Dinardo’s presence couldn’t hurt.

  When they arrived at the gym, Lenny waved at them from the ring. He was smiling and in his hands he held a pair of shiny, new-looking boxing gloves.

  “For me?” Moshe asked wide-eyed as he and Dinardo approached the ring.

  The old boxer nodded, grinning widely. “You guessed it.”

  “Wow…”

  Lenny tossed them from the ring and Moshe caught them.

  “Wow, thanks, Lenny. You really didn’t have to though.”

  “Nonsense, kid. You earned ‘em. Way you been workin’ your tail off these past four weeks. You put some of these other guys to shame!” he yelled jovially, eyeing some of the other boxers around the gym who had momentarily ceased their workouts to see what all the fuss was. His remark drew a few smiles before the boxers resumed their training. “Anyways,” he continued, as Moshe and Pasquale stepped into the ring, “I just wanna wish you good luck for tomorrow.”

  “What’s…tomorrow?” Moshe asked slowly, wondering how the old man could possibly know about his fight with Cooy.

  “Ah, nothin’ really, I guess,” Lenny answered with a wink. “Just taking care of some unfinished business.”

  Moshe and Pasquale exchanged glances, neither one sure what Lenny knew or didn’t know.

  “But,” said the old boxer, clapping his hands together, “we’ve only got one day left of training. So let’s get at it.”

  - 13 -

  Sunny. Bright. Jazz on the radio. Mother making pancakes and swinging her hips. The sights and sounds that greeted Moshe the following morning as he dragged himself into the kitchen made him question whether he’d woken up in some parallel universe. For, how could the world be so sunny and carefree when in just a few hours he’d be exchanging blows with James “Knuckles” Cooy?

  “Pancakes, bärchen?"

  Moshe looked at his mother, her flower print apron as immaculate as ever.

  “Yes please, mamma.”

  “Should we check your sugars?”

  “They were good last night.”

  “I suppose it’s all the boxing you’ve been doing.”

  Moshe smiled. His mother had said the word “boxing” in a neutral tone for the second time in as many days.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Morning, meine liebe,” Friedrich Silverstein said to his wife as he entered the kitchen and took a seat at the table. “My son,” he added, nodding at Moshe.

  “Pappa? Don’t you have work today?” asked Moshe, surprised to see his father still at home after six thirty.

  “No, son. I’m following your lead,” he answered matter-of-factly, leaning over the table and taking the coffee carafe.

  “Following my lead?”

  He couldn’t help but notice that his father wore a tie and a collared shirt. Surely there was some explanation…

  “Yep. I’ve got a job interview,” Friedrich answered, unfurling the Ottawa Citizen and scanning the front page.

  “Your father’s going to join the civil service,” his wife said proudly as she carried a plate of pancakes to the table.

  “The civil service?”

  “The government, son. Big Brother.

  “But…why? What about your job with Herr Stockton?”

  “Your father’s tired of being a janitor, dear,” said Marthe, setting a knife and fork in front of her husband.

  “Danke, meine liebe. Yes, son, I think it’s time we both fought back.”

  “So did you quit your job?”

  Friedrich took a bite of pancake and nodded. “Yes, son. And you should have seen the look on Stockton’s face when I handed him my resignation.”

  Moshe looked wide-eyed at his father. Friedrich sipped his coffee.

  “You seem surprised, son.”

  “Well, yes, pappa. I mean, you and mamma always taught me to be polite. To not rock the boat.”

  Friedrich sighed as he buttered his pancakes. “Yes, son. And look where that’s gotten us. Look where that’s gotten our people.”

  The ground was cold and hard under his feet and Moshe was keenly aware of the excited chatter of the throng of students behind him as he and the Dinardo brothers crunched their way through the snow towards the grove.

  “Cold day for a fight,” the younger Dinardo mused. “Those punches are going to feel like ice blocks.”

  “Well, let’s just hope Moshe lands more punches than Cooy does,” the elder Dinardo added.

  Moshe ignored them, chewing on his thoughts. He hadn’t seen Cooy yet. Would he be a no show? No. Not at the risk of being called “yellow”. And not with the chance to humiliate him in front of all these people.

  All these people.

  He glanced over his shoulder. A sea of scarves and toques, red noses, and eager anticipation. Too many to count.

  Dinardo was clearly thinking what he was thinking because a second later he remarked, “there must be two hundred people coming to this!”

  And more will come, Moshe thought anxiously as the grove at the bottom of the hill came into view.

  Still no Cooy.

  “Any sign of Cooy yet?” Dinardo said, reading his mind once again. “He’d better come.”

  Moshe shook his head as he rubbed his hands together. Dinardo was right. It was cold. But then the cold seemed to sharpen the senses.

  “Is that him?” Paolo Dinardo asked, pointing to a quartet of figures making their way slowly towards the grove from the opposite end of the park.

  “That’s him alright,” his younger brother answered. “The red toque. That’s definitely Cooy. And look. He’s got your violin. Or at least, it looks like he’s got it.”

  Moshe nodded, not really hearing what his friend was saying. His violin. As much as he loved boxing, he longed to hold his be
loved violin once again. Its sturdy, wooden neck. Its well strung bow. The beautiful sounds it produced. The violin had become a part of him, and no one, not even Cooy, would ever separate him from it again.

  “There’s not enough room in here for all these people,” Dinardo remarked as they made their way into the grove.

  “Where does this lead to anyways?” Paolo asked, eyeing the ever-growing crowd of students filing in.

  “A little clearing. It’s where all the fights are held.”

  Sure enough, a minute later, Moshe found himself in a ring-shaped clearing where the snow had been well stamped and where the thick evergreens of the thicket provided ample cover from the wind.

  “Not a bad spot,” Paolo observed as they walked towards the centre of the clearing.

  “As long as my Moshe wins, don’t matter what it’s like,” said Dinardo, clapping his friend on the back.

  Moshe nodded, too much on his mind to utter any words. After several minutes, he asked, “now what?”

  Dinardo ran a hand through his hair as he surveyed the large crowd. “Now we wait.”

  Ten minutes passed before Cooy stepped into the clearing, three figures swaddled in winter clothing following closely behind.

  “Hey, Mushy, you actually came,” he said with a laugh as he approached. “Maybe you ain’t so yellow after all.”

  Moshe said nothing, but simply stared at the pudgy boy. One of the figures trailing behind stepped forwards and removed his scarf.

  “Hey, Mushy.”

  Peter Carlson.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Thought maybe I’d come and watch my little cousin kick the shit outta ya.”

  Moshe swallowed and glanced at Cooy who had already removed his jacket. Next, the mass of students milling about stepped forwards, forming a tight circle around the two