 
### Moshe

Adrien Leduc

Copyright © 2012. Adrien Leduc. Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved.

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(Leduc, Adrien 1987- )

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form than that in which it is published.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

SYNOPSIS

Ottawa. 1949. Moshe Silverstein doesn't quite fit in. A Type 1 diabetic and one of the only Jewish students at school, the diminutive eleven year old has few friends and is tormented on a daily basis. With the help of a classmate and Lenny Katzman, an aged boxer and owner of Lenny's Gym, Moshe learns to fight and gains self confidence in himself. The story comes to a head when Moshe has a final showdown with his tormentors.

DEDICATION

For Robert Hinitt (1926 - 2011). A good man and a good friend. A fellow romantic who set a fine example of meshing the real with the fantastical.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

In the early days of diabetes treatment, Type 1 diabetics ("juvenile diabetes" or diabetes mellitus) had to test their sugars by peeing into a test tube and then adding a chemical mixture. The blood sugar level was determined by the resulting colour of the mixture. Blood sugar metres became available only in the nineteen-eighties. (I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes in ninety-eight.)

\- 1 -

"How was school today, _bärchen_?"

"Okay, mamma."

Moshe sat down at the table as his mother poured him a tall glass of milk.

"How are you feeling? Should we check your sugar, honigbienchen?" she asked, setting the glass on the table in front of him.

While the Silverstein's tended to speak German at home, as Moshe grew older, English was being used more often.

"I don't know."

"Well, you look pale. And I don't care if Doctor Kazcynski says that you're not to eat fruit. You're going to have a banana. It'll put the colour back in your face."

She thrust one at him and he took it.

"Father will be home late tonight. Herr Stockton is making him stay late again. That man works your father too hard. Much too hard," she commented, returning to pressing dough into a pie pan. "Those English. They have no concept of family. The importance of eating supper together - Moshe?"

"Yes, mamma."

"Are you listening to me?"

Moshe looked at his mother. There was flour on her apron and her hair was tied back with a strip of purple fabric.

"Yes, mamma. Father is working late. You don't like Herr Stockton. I know, mamma."

Missus Silverstein nodded affirmatively. "Good. A boy your age should always listen to his mother."

"Yes, mamma."

"How many times have I told Moshe, class? How many times have I told Moshe that three is only divisible by itself? What's this one-and-a-half nonsense?" he asked to laughter.

Red-faced, the boy lowered his eyes and stared at the scribbles on his desk.

Go back to Germany, Jew boy!

The Nazis missed you!

"Mister Silverstein? Are you listening?"

The boy looked up at Mr. Elliott, his math teacher.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Boys like you need to listen. Now then class, turn to page fifty four. We're doing long division for the remainder of the period. Moshe, I want you to lead us in the reading."

"Run home to your mama, Jew boy!" Peter Carlson yelled after him. "We'll get you tomorrow!"

Panting and out of breath, Moshe pounded up the alleyway until he reached the Everton Arms. He fumbled for the key around his neck and once inside, raced upstairs to the Silverstein's third floor apartment.

"Moshe?" Marthe Silverstein asked, a look of concern etched on her face. "What's the matter? Why are you running like there's a herd of elephants behind you?"

"It's nothing, mamma," the boy replied, closing the door quietly behind him and letting his bag drop to the floor.

"Are the boys at school bothering you again?"

"No, mamma."

"Are you sure? You don't look very happy."

"I'm fine, mamma."

"Okay, _bärchen_."

"Jew boy! Jew boy!"

Peter Carlson's fist slammed into Moshe's face and Moshe felt his nose shatter.

"Jew boy! Jew boy!" the crowd continued to taunt.

"Come on! Fight me, Jew boy! What? Too afraid?"

Moshe picked himself slowly up off the ground.

Wham.

He hit the ground again.

"Come on! Get up! Fight me!"

Moshe figured it best to lie still as he watched the throng of students assembled in the courtyard point, laugh, and spit.

"Friedrich - "

"No, Marthe. That's it. I'm going down to that school first thing in the morning and demanding that no-good, WASP principal answer for this."

"No, Friedrich. Have you forgotten what happened last time?"

"When? What last time?"

Friedrich Silverstein was still dressed in his janitor's uniform, his brown eyes angry and tired looking.

"Last time I spoke to the school. When those boys sprayed our Moshe with ketchup."

"You spoke to Herr Davidson?"

"No. I spoke to the vice principal. Frau Andrews."

"And?"

Friedrich's face was crimson now and beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

"Did she punish the boys that did it?"

Moshe, listening to his parents' conversation from his bedroom, knew the answer. He'd been called into Mrs. Andrew's office. Made to admit to being "a liar". Told that if he became a "habitual tattle-tale", he'd be suspended, or worse, expelled. Moshe hadn't breathed a word about his tormentors to his teachers from that day on.

"I understand that you're upset, Mister Silverstein, but we at Saint Mark's pride ourselves on being a caring and generous - "

"Oh, cut the nonsense, Mister Davidson."

It was the following morning and Moshe sat uncomfortably between his mother and father in the principal's office.

"Explain to me then why my son's face is all bruised and bloody?" Friedrich Silverstein said, clutching Moshe's face and pushing it forwards.

The blonde, blue-eyed Mr. Davidson merely shrugged. "I honestly couldn't tell you, Mister Silverstein. Perhaps he had an accident on the way home from school?"

Marthe Silverstein shook her head in exasperation. "No. He did not have any accident on the way home from school. The boys in his class did this."

Her voice was shaking now, her face wild and fierce. "Now you put an end to this now or I'm going to the superintendent."

The principal's eyes narrowed momentarily, but then his face softened. "Alright, Missus Silverstein. I'll deal with it personally."

"And you will sit here and do your homework here in my office, until four o'clock, for the rest of the school year. Every day. Are we understood?"

"Yes, Sir," Moshe answered quietly, looking up at his principal.

"Good. Now start your homework. I'll let you know when it's time to leave."

With that, Mr. Davidson turned and strode out of his office. A minute later Moshe could hear him chatting and laughing with one of the secretaries.

Tears stinging his eyes, Moshe opened his math book and got to work.

"Moshe? You're so late! More than an hour! I was worried sick about you! I nearly called your father at work! And you know how he hates that!"

Marthe Silverstein studied her son's face as he stood in the entranceway to their small apartment.

"Mister Davidson kept me after school. To do my homework."

"Why? Did you misbehave?"

"No, _mamma_."

"Then what?"

"Mister Davidson is keeping me after school everyday, for the rest of the year, so that I don't have to see Peter Carlson outside."

Marthe Silverstein shook her head in disbelief.

" _This_ is his solution!? He's going to keep you after school? So that you won't run into the boys in the school yard?"

Moshe shrugged and sat down at the table where his mother had evidently been writing Passover cards; paper cardboard, ribbon and calligraphy pens strewn all around.

"Well, that's it. You are finished at that school. I'm taking you to enroll at Fourth Avenue Middle School in the morning."

"No, _mamma_!"

"Yes, Moshe."

"What does father say?" the boy protested.

"He agrees. We already discussed it last night. We decided that if Herr Davidson didn't fix the problem, that I will take you to enroll in a different school. The Braunfman girls go there. So you'll at least know someone. _Frau_ Braunfman says it's a great school. More ethnicities. It's not so WASPish."

"What's WASPish?"

"It means Jews aren't wanted."

As it turned out, it was too late in the school year for a transfer. So explained the receptionist to Mrs. Silverstein as she and Moshe sat in the office of Fourth Avenue Middle School the following morning.

"It's nearly the end of April, Missus Silverstein. There's barely two months left. Come back in August and you can register your son for next year."

The bus ride home was jittery and uncomfortable. Moshe watched his mother, her face set tight in anger. Finally, just before they arrived at Somerset Street, Marthe Silverstein sighed and her shoulders slumped.

"You'll have to stay late after school for two more months, _bärchen_."

The next eight weeks passed without incident and on the final day of school, Mrs. Silverstein herself came to pick up her son from Mr. Davidson's office.

"And my Moshe won't be returning next year," she said defiantly as they were about to leave.

Mr. Davidson glanced up from the papers on his desk. "And why is that?"

"Because you and this school are incompetent. You know, my husband and I left Germany in thirty-six. What happened to our families and our people just a few years later is proof for me that you leave when there is injustice. As soon as possible. And so we are leaving. I am enrolling Moshe at Fourth Avenue next year."

"Suit yourself," was all the principal said before slamming the door in her face.

Fuming, Marthe Silverstein took her son by the hand. "Come on, _bärchen_ , we're leaving."

\- 2 -

Summer came early to Ottawa that year and by mid-July the thermometer in the Silverstein's small apartment had already hit ninety-six degrees. With little to do, Moshe divided his time between the balcony where he would play with his collection of army men and the living room where he would listen to his favourite radio programs.

Needless to say, Marthe Silverstein worried about her son.

"You spend too much time inside for an eleven year old boy," she complained one afternoon. "Go outside. Have fun."

"But I don't have any friends, _mamma_."

"Well, make some."

"The kids don't like me."

"Which kids don't like you?"

"The kids in the neighbourhood."

"What about Grigor down the hall?"

"He's a child, _mamma_."

Frustrated by her son's retorts, Marthe Silverstein sighed. "Well, I'm scrubbing the floors this afternoon so I need you out of the house for a couple of hours."

She went to her purse and rummaged through it until she found what she was looking for.

"Here," she said, thrusting a piece of paper at him. "Take this to the drycleaners - you know the one we always go to?"

Moshe gave a nod. "Yes, _mamma_."

"Take this to the drycleaners and pick up your father's pants. And here," she added, reaching once more into her purse and withdrawing two one-dollar notes, "stop by the store and get yourself some sweets."

Moshe grinned and eagerly accepted the money.

"AND DON'T COME BACK BEFORE THREE O'CLOCK!" she yelled as he dashed out the door.

Hong's Drycleaning was ten blocks east on Somerset, in the heart of Centretown. Moshe enjoyed gazing in the windows of the sundry shops that lined the strip. There were fancy watches. Cured sausage. Umbrellas. Art supplies. A bit of everything. Still, as with all the other kids in the neighbourhood, there were only two stores that _really_ interested him: Ianno's and Wing's. One Italian, the other Chinese. Both stores sold a wide variety of candies, sweets, and treats. However, while most of the kids in his building - the Braunfman sisters included - patronized Ianno's, Moshe liked the imported candies offered at Wing's. There were suckers that tasted like lemons. Buns made from almond and coconut. Gum with funny writing on the packaging (the comics never made sense but Moshe could blow fist-sized bubbles with it).

As he neared the drycleaners - it's green and yellow pastel sign beckoning in the distance - Moshe decided that if his mother wanted him to stay away for two whole hours, then he had best get his sweets beforehand. After all, how could he enjoy a sweet and potentially messy treat like candied apples or strudels if he had his father's pants with him? His mother would give him a couple wallops with her soup ladle if he were to dirty his father's clean pants.

The bells tinkled as he stepped inside Wing's and, easing through the throng of people crowded around the register, Moshe eventually made it to the candy aisle. Faced with the impossible task of choosing which candy to buy, the boy spent more than a quarter of an hour deliberating between Taiwanese toffee, Liu's Licorice and Dragon Gumballs.

When he'd finally made a decision, Moshe carried his purchase to the counter. Seeing him approach, Mrs. Wing looked at him and smiled.

"Mooshee (this was how she pronounced his name), long time, no see. How you been?"

"Very well, thank you, Missus Wing."

"You only get the gumball today? Here, take some licorice too. No pay for the licorice. You a good boy."

The boy's eyes lit up as he graciously accepted a package of Liu's Licorice.

"You come again soon, eh?" she said, taking the one dollar bill Moshe held out and giving him two quarters for change. "We miss you."

Moshe nodded and returned her smile. "I only get my allowance once a month. And sometimes I spend it at the pictures."

Mrs. Wing smiled knowingly. "You boys. Always going to the pictures. Our son do the same. But you shouldn't watch too much. You know, it make you blind one day."

Moshe's face took on a concerned expression as he wondered whether what Mrs. Wing had just told him might actually be true. But there was no chance to ask as a young woman with a baby strapped to her chest, and clearly in a hurry, rushed up behind him and placed a quart of milk on the counter.

"Bye, bye Moshe, see you next time," said Mrs. Wing, giving the young mother a reproving glance.

"See you next time, Missus Wing."

Further along Somerset were a variety of shops and eating establishments. There was Arnold's Music, June's Pottery, Mrs. Abigail's Odds and Ends Shoppe. Of particular interest to Moshe was Lenny's Gym. The place had opened less than a year ago and Moshe liked to kneel on the bench at the window and watch the boxers inside. Skipping, hitting bags, performing push-ups. There was always someone doing something. Today the boxers were numerous and Moshe's eyes moved towards a coloured man who was busy pounding away at a speedbag. There was a comfortable rhythm to his movements and the boy marveled at the boxer's ability.

A short distance from this man, two adolescents were engaged in a spirited sparring session and Moshe watched, mesmerized, as the two young boxers danced, jabbed, and blocked.

The thought of joining Lenny's Gym and learning to box had crossed his mind before, but he wondered how he'd pay for his membership - and if he had to pay for lessons on top of that? His allowance certainly wouldn't be enough to cover those kinds of fees.

Somewhat disappointed, Moshe watched the boxers for several more minutes before turning and slowly making his way to Hong's Drycleaning.

\- 3 -

Summer dragged on. Slow and scorching. Entire days would pass with Moshe sitting on the balcony, watching the cars and people below. Other days, when it was too hot, the boy simply sat inside, the curtains drawn and the fan whirring steadily.

Marthe Silverstein would watch him while doing the dishes or the ironing, questioning why her son appeared so unhappy and wondering what she could do about it.

One afternoon, while having tea at Mrs. Braunfman's downstairs, an idea came to her: violin lessons.

Hepzibah Braunfman had a brother in London who was an accomplished violinist. Normally Marthe had no patience for the woman's bragging about such and such a relative who owned a store in New York or a mining company in Brazil, but today she was all ears. For Hepzibah's brother Baruch had recently been accepted into the London Symphony Orchestra and was quickly making a name for himself across England.

"And even zo Baruch still vases the anti-Semitism," she explained in her heavily accented English, "he gets on very well. Makes a lot of money," she added, rubbing her fingers together.

"When did he start playing the violin?" asked Marthe, the wheels turning in her head. "Does it take many years to learn?"

"Oh," Hepzibah said, sighing and taking a sip of her tea, "father got him a viola when he vas seven or eight. Then he began to receive zee lessons from a neighbour...vat vas his name... _Herr_ Schweizer! _Herr_ Schweizer," she giggled, clearly recalling a memory, "he vas a very funny man. He used to vear zees trousers zat ver up to his chin practically. Oh, _Herr_ Schweizer, he vas so funny. But, yes," the plump woman summarized, wiping a tear from her eye, "he used to teach my brother zee viola."

"And how about the _violin_?" Marthe asked, growing impatient. "When did Baruch begin to play the violin?"

Hepzibah looked at the ceiling as she thought about it. "I believe he was about nine...maybe ten years old...yes, ten I zink...when he began to play the violin. At this time he vas playing vith zee school orchestra."

Moshe's only eleven. Perhaps it isn't too late.

"Any idea how much it costs to buy a violin?"

Hepzibah Braunfman giggled and threw her hands in the air. "God, I have no idea, Marthe. Vat does a woman like me know of such things?"

Marthe Silverstein smiled politely and drained the rest of her mug.

"More tea?"

"Yes, I think it's an excellent idea, _meine liebe_. Moshe will play the violin."

Friedrich Silverstein pushed himself away from the table and leaned back in his chair, a toothpick dangling from his mouth.

"Moshe Silverstein, professional violinist."

Moshe looked at his father. The man's face was all aglow, his eyes warm and lively. It had been awhile since he'd seen him so happy.

"Ah, my boy," he said, returning his chair to an upright position and reaching forwards so that he could tousle his son's hair. "You know our people make incredible musicians. The best in the world!" he added, slapping a palm on the table. "You watch and see! My Moshe will be the next Jeno Hubay!"

Two weeks later, as July drew to a close and the new school year beckoned, Moshe found himself seated in a springy vinyl chair beside his new violin teacher. Mr. Lebowski, a tall and lanky Pole who could only hear with his left ear, was a former member of the St. Petersburg Philharmonic Orchestra and had been playing the violin for nearly fifty years. When the First World War broke out, he, along with his mother and sister, had fled to Canada. Now in his seventy-fifth year, Mr. Lebowski was alone in the world, his only important possessions being an old Durro violin and his oversized, lethargic cat, Alojzy.

"And see? Now you use tremolo."

Moshe nodded, not understanding, but not feeling brave enough to ask what exactly Mr. Lebowski wanted him to do.

The elderly man handed Moshe the violin. "Now you try again."

The boy grimaced and took the violin, tucking the chin rest under his chin and gripping the neck. Slowly, and without an ounce of confidence, Moshe touched the bow to the first string and began to play.

"No, no, no! Here, let me have it! Watch again!"

It went like this, back and forth, for an hour, Moshe glancing at the clock on the wall nearly every minute, wondering how long he'd have to endure this torture. Finally, when it seemed to Moshe as though the lesson would never end and that he would be stuck listening to Mr. Lebowski rile on about how he would "never cut it as a violinist", the old Pole announced that the lesson was finished for the day. At this, Moshe paid him the two dollars his father had given him and left without a glance back, praying tomorrow's lesson would be better.

Every night after a lesson, Moshe's father would ask him what he'd learned and Moshe would tell him. The boy could see the pride on his parents' faces as he explained, in as much detail as possible, what Mr. Lebowski had taught him. Once in awhile he would demonstrate on the "dummy violin" (a block of wood Friedrich Silverstein had fashioned into the shape of a violin, the end of a broom handle serving as bow) and they would watch him "play", looks of awe etched on their faces.

"Some day you'll have a real violin, _bärchen_ ," Friedrich would say once Moshe had finished his demonstration. "And in ten years (the number of years changed each week), when you're rich and famous, you can take care of your mamma and papa. Hey, my boy?"

"Yes, father."

\- 4 -

The last few weeks of summer passed quickly and before long Moshe was following his mother up the front steps of Fourth Avenue Middle School to register for the new school year.

"And I want you to just ignore the troublemakers this year. Okay, _bärchen_? Just ignore them."

"Yes, mamma," though he felt he'd done his best to ignore Peter Carlson and his gang - to no avail.

"This is a new beginning for you," she continued as they stepped aside for a herd of stampeding first-graders. "I know you'll fit in here."

"Ew, smell Mushy's sandwich! Stinky, Jew bologna!"

James Cooy, with his pudgy chin and thick arms, stood just a few feet from Moshe's desk.

"It's beef salami," Moshe answered quietly, his voice catching in the back of his throat.

"Stinky Jew boy's going to stink up the whole classroom!" he exclaimed to laughter.

Fighting back tears, Moshe hurriedly wrapped up the remainder of his sandwich and stuffed it into his bag.

"What's the matter?" the heavy-set boy demanded. "Jew boy not hungry anymore? Ate too much shit for breakfast?"

There were several titters from the other students seated in the room and Moshe buried his face in the hollow of his desk, pretending to search for something.

"Come on, Jew boy. I just wanna be your friend."

"Leave him alone, Cooy," came a voice from somewhere behind them.

"What was that Dinardo? Retardo. Is Mushy your boyfriend or somethin'?"

Moshe wanted so badly to look up and see which of his classmates was Dinardo, but there were tears in his eyes and having the class see you blubbering on your first day was instant suicide.

"Nah. He ain't my boyfriend. But he's new. So stop picking on him - or you'll have me to deal with."

There was an outburst of oohs and aahs from the other students and Moshe, head bent practically to his knees in an attempts to hide his tears, waited nervously for what would happen next. But to his surprise, James Cooy simply scoffed, "you wish you could deal with me, Dinardo. Retardo. Dumb, little Italian."

"Say that again, Cooy," Moshe heard him reply, his tone dangerous and threatening.

James Cooy said no more.

"You can't let Cooy get to you."

Moshe turned around to see who the voice belonged to.

"Otherwise, he'll just keep on doing it."

Moshe nodded, eyeing the boy with the oily, dark hair that was stood before him.

"Pasquale Dinardo's the name."

"Moshe. Moshe Silverstein."

"You new in town?"

The boys turned and began to walk across the tarmac. It was getting on three thirty and kids were running for their buses.

"No. I was born in Ottawa. I just changed schools."

"Oh yeah? Where were you before?"

Moshe's stomach knotted. Did he tell this stranger he'd gone to Saint Mark's?

What if he knows people there? What if Pasquale Dinardo has friends there and he asks them about me?

He could just imagine it.

" _Moshe Silverstein? Yeah, he used to go here. Kid was the biggest baby you ever saw. Got beaten up every other week."_

"Well?"

"Just some other school," Moshe croaked.

His classmate eyed him suspiciously, but said no more about it.

"So...where do you live?"

"On Somerset."

"Really? Do you know Lenny's Gym?"

Moshe nodded.

"I go there every weekend with my brother."

"Oh. Do you box?"

The boy grinned. "Sure as shit."

"That's pretty swell."

"You ever tried? It's fun. And it keeps you tough. You should come sometime. Maybe this weekend?"

Moshe felt the knot in his stomach grow tighter. What would his parents say about him going to a boxing gym?

"I don't know..."

"Ah, come on. It's fun. I'll give you the royal tour. Lenny's real cool. He's Jewish too, come to think of it."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Old guy. Tough as nails. Used to be a Golden Gloves champ back in the day."

"Wow."

Dinardo ran a hand through his wavy, black hair. "Yeah, but anyways, I gotta jet. Got some people to see."

Moshe nodded. "Sure."

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

Moshe nodded again.

"And hey, don't let Cooy get to you. Next time just give him a good one. Right to the nose. He'll leave you alone," he added, a wide grin on his face.

"Er...alright."

A girl standing on the sidewalk waved and smiled at Dinardo.

"WAIT THERE!" he yelled at her, before turning back to Moshe. "Alright man, see you tomorrow."

"Bye."

"Mamma," Moshe began as Marthe Silverstein filled his plate with carrots and mashed potatoes.

"Yes, _bärchen_?"

It was just the two of them for supper this evening as Friedrich Silverstein had been made to stay late at work again.

"Do you think I could take boxing lessons?"

"Boxing?" his mother squawked. "What ever for?"

Moshe shrugged, not wanting to divulge his real reason. "I think it could be fun. A boy in my class does boxing. He invited me to go with him."

"Well, you are my son and I say you aren't allowed."

"But why not?"

"Because," she replied tersely, setting down the casserole dish and resting her hands on her hips. "We didn't raise you to be some kind of violent animal. Not to mention, Doctor Kaczynski has said that you should avoid strenuous exercise."

"But, mamma!"

"No buts, Moshe. I've said all I had to say on the matter. Now eat your dinner and we'll speak no more of it."

"Boxing? But why?"

Moshe could hear his father's voice through the wall of his bedroom.

"That's what I said," he heard his mother reply. "He says it might be fun."

"Fun? What kind of fun is to be had in hitting people? Where did he get this idea?"

"He says a boy in his class does boxing."

Moshe heard his father let out a deep sigh.

"And what of his violin lessons? Does he not care for those? Am I wasting my money?"

"I don't know, Friedrich."

Picturing the look of disappointment on his father's face, Moshe felt ashamed and rolled over in his bed, wondering how in the world he was going to take boxing lessons now.

"What's Mushy got in his lunch today? Smells funny."

Moshe could feel the stares of his classmates on his back as he looked up from his desk at James Cooy. He had decided to heed Dinardo's advice and not take any more crap from Cooy.

"A cheese and pickle sandwich. Now leave me alone."

"What did you say, Jew boy?"

"I said leave me alone, Cooy."

"You're startin' to get an attitude. You think you're tough now, hunh? You think Dinardo Retardo's got your back?"

Moshe began to shake his head in disagreement, but before he could, the pudgy boy lunged forward, seized his desk with both hands, and tipped it sideways. Moshe, arms flailing, was unable to extricate himself in time, crashed sideways to the floor. Stuck in his desk and pinned to the floor, he looked up at his aggressor.

"Whatcha lookin' at, Jew boy?"

"Nothing."

Cooy shook his head as though what he'd said disappointed him. "You know, my father went to Germany to help your people and died because of it. So how come you're here? You should be dead too," he spat, landing a kick to Moshe's unprotected stomach.

The boy winced painfully and shut his eyes. When he opened them, Cooy was standing over him, a mischievous look on his face.

"Jews belong in the garbage," he said, before tipping the contents of the green, metal wastebasket that usually sat beside Mrs. Braithwaite's desk directly onto Moshe's head.

"Ewwww!" he heard several of his classmates sing aloud.

Moshe, covered in the remnants of student lunches, moved his head sideways and searched the faces of his classmates. Would one step forward and help him? Dinardo was nowhere to be seen. He hadn't been in class that morning.

"Don't expect anything from them, Jew boy," he heard Cooy say from behind him. A second later Moshe felt another swift kick connect with his exposed back.

Ouch.

Opening his eyes once more, he saw his classmates returning to their conversations, resuming their lunches, unaffected by his lying helpless on the floor.

"These stains on the back of your shirt, _bärchen_...what are they? This looks like," Marthe Silverstein paused as she held up Moshe's shirt for closer inspection, "tuna?"

He'd tried to wash his clothes in the bathroom at school. To rid them of the assortment of egg shells, gum wrappers and leftover lunch that James Cooy had poured on him. Evidently, he'd missed a few spots.

"I'm not sure, mamma."

"Moshe..."

"Really, mamma. I don't know."

Marthe Silverstein eyed her son suspiciously.

"Okay...but you tell me if something happens at school. Okay?"

"Yes, mamma."

How could he go back? How could he face his classmates after what had happened? He was ashamed. Embarrassed. Afraid. Though they were the ones who had left him there. Lying on the floor. No one moving to help him. Acting as though nothing had happened.

"Can I help you find something today, young man?"

Moshe looked up to see the same middle-aged woman who he'd seen earlier seated at the front desk.

"No, thank you."

"Alright...you don't have school today?"

Moshe looked around the library. There were women with their young ones reading in the corner. Old men scanning the newspapers. Anxious looking university students poring over textbooks. But no kids.

"Er...no...it's a holiday."

"Oh?"

Moshe nodded. "Yeah."

"Are you in the Catholic or the public system?"

"The public."

The librarian nodded and gave a knowing smile. "You public school kids. Always getting those extra holidays."

Moshe gulped and smiled nervously.

"Alright," she sighed. "Let me know if you need help finding a book. At least you spend your holiday doing something productive. I'll bet the same can't be said for your peers," she added as she turned and made her way back towards her desk.

Moshe gave her another nervous smile before returning his attention to the blank, white wall in front of him.

Now what?

He checked his watch. It was going on noon. Just a few more hours and he could go home.

And what about tomorrow? And the day after?

Saddened by his predicament, the boy rested his head on the table and closed his eyes, hoping the afternoon would pass quickly.

"How long do you think you can keep this up?" Pasquale Dinardo asked as he handed Moshe several sheets of paper the following afternoon.

"As long as possible."

"How you going to keep your parents from finding out you're skippin' school?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well you'd better think fast. 'Cause they'll call your parents. Believe me. I skipped a few days last year to go to Montreal with this girl I was sweet on and they called my dad...and yeah, it wasn't pretty. I got the belt pretty good that night. Couldn't sit for a week."

Moshe grimaced sympathetically.

"What you need to do is write a fake note. From your mom like. And bring that to the office. Say that your grandma died or something and that you need a few weeks off to mourn. That usually works. You just have to make sure you can copy your mom's her handwriting."

"I never thought of that. You know a lot about this stuff."

The olive-skinned Italian grinned. "I guess."

Moshe glanced around the courtyard, keeping an eye out for teachers.

"Keep in mind too," said Dinardo, returning Moshe to the present, "that you can't keep this up forever. Sooner or later you gotta come back. And when you do," he said, glancing over his shoulder at James Cooy and his friends, "he'll still be here."

Moshe felt his throat tighten and had to force his next words out. "I know."

Dinardo shrugged. "Well, I gotta run. Meet me again tomorrow and I'll get you your homework. Same as today."

"I really appreciate it."

"Don't mention it. You're the new kid. I was the new kid once."

Moshe nodded appreciatively.

"Anyways. See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow."

As it turned out, Moshe wasn't able to stay away from school as long as he would have liked. For just two days later a receptionist from the school had called Moshe's mother. Completely oblivious to her son's truancy, Marthe Silverstein had at first attempted to argue with the woman on the phone.

"What do you mean my Moshe hasn't been at school for three days?" she breathed into the mouthpiece.

"Well, I have his attendance chart right here in front of me, Missus Silverstein and it clearly shows that Moshe was not in school on Monday, Tuesday or today, Wednesday. It is our policy to call parents if their children are absent for three consecutive days without notice. Now, if there is some legitimate reason for your son's absence, for instance, if he's ill - "

"No. No. He's not been ill."

Though he'll sure wish he was once I'm through with him, she'd thought darkly.

"Will he be at school tomorrow then, Missus Silverstein?"

"Yes, he most certainly will be."

"Alright then. I'll make a note of that. You have yourself a good evening, Missus Silverstein."

Too angry to speak, Marthe Silverstein hung up the receiver without a word more.

"But mamma!" Moshe cried. "You don't understand! The kids - " his voice caught as he gasped for air, "they tease me! There's this boy - "

His face was red from crying and he brushed away his tears.

"What boy?"

"This boy...James...James Cooy. He makes fun of me. He kicked me and pushed my desk onto the floor."

Friedrich Silverstein, seated on the couch, ran a hand through his hair and stared at the floor.

"Mamma, please."

Marthe Silverstein looked at her son, the soup ladle still in her hand. "I am sick and tired of this. You need to stay away from these boys. They're nothing but troublemakers and they will drag you down with them."

She paused for effect and glanced sideways at her husband before continuing. "You know my father was a dentist, right? Your Opa Rosenthal? And as for Opa Silverstein, he was a doctor. Now," she said, her tone shrill and perfunctory, "how do you suppose you are going to become a doctor or a dentist - or a lawyer or an engineer or whatever - if you don't go to school!"

Moshe ceased massaging his sore backside (which Mrs. Silverstein had walloped with the soup ladle just minutes before) and shrugged. "I don't know, mamma."

The boy's words seemed to add fuel to the fire.

"You don't know!? You don't know!?" his mother screeched, lunging forwards and swatting him with the soup ladle once more.

"Marthe!"

At the sound of her husband's voice, Marthe Silverstein stopped.

"Leave him be. He's had enough punishment."

He turned towards his son. "Moshe. Take your supper to your bedroom and go to bed. I will speak with you tomorrow."

Moshe nodded slowly, but didn't move.

"Well, go on. Marthe, is the food ready?"

"Yes, of course the food is ready. What do you think I do all day?"

Friedrich Silverstein gave his wife a reproving stare. "Dish him up a plate so he can go to his room."

He turned back towards his son. "I am very disappointed in you, Moshe."

"I'm sorry, father."

They stood, staring at each other in silence while Marthe Silverstein fixed her son's plate. When it was ready, she came around the corner and held it out for him to take.

"Thank you - "

"Don't speak to me right now. I'll be in to give you your shot in an hour. After you've eaten."

Moshe nodded.

"Now go," she said, waving the soup spoon in the air.

Moshe took the plate and hurried from the kitchen.

\- 5 -

"Eat! You're so skinny! You need to eat! Put some meat on your bones!"

Mrs. Dinardo looked at her son and rattled off a sentence in Italian. Pasquale grinned and turned to Moshe.

"My mom says you remind her of the street kids in Calabria."

Moshe blushed, suddenly very self-conscience of his small size.

"He's a diabetic, ma."

Mrs. Dinardo's face adopted a look of intense concern. "Diabetico?"

"Si."

"And you...you take the...come si dice...iniezione?"

Moshe looked to Dinardo for a translation.

The boy finished swallowing before answering. "She means, you have to take injections. Right?"

Moshe looked back at Mrs. Dinardo and nodded. "Yes, that's right. Twice a day."

Mrs. Dinardo clicked her tongue and shook her head in disappointment. The way she was staring at him, Moshe felt as though he had the grim reaper behind him.

"But...there is no sugar in this food," she said, indicating the sandwiches and fruit plate on the table.

"No, this food is fine," said Moshe quickly. "I can eat everything here - except pork of course."

"Ah, si. You Jewish no eat the pork, eh?"

"That's right."

"No pork?" Dinardo asked, incredulous. "Ever?"

Moshe shrugged. "Nope. It's forbidden."

"Well, you're missin' out, buddy," he said, taking a ham sandwich from the platter in front of them and biting into it.

"Mmmmm."

Moshe smiled, thinking he hadn't been this happy in a long time. Almost two weeks had passed since his mother had walloped him with the soup ladle for skipping school. In those two weeks he had managed to solidify his friendship with Pasquale Dinardo and avoid James Cooy. Better still, he was no longer a target at lunch hour because he either ate at the Dinardo's or ate in the auditorium where, in the presence of students and teachers, no one bothered him.

Moreover, his violin lessons with Mr. Lebowski were going much better. Of course it helped that he was beginning to play quite well. Well enough anyways that the old Pole let him hold onto the violin for more than a few minutes at a time, offering a pointer here and a tip there, but not yanking it away as he'd done during the first few weeks.

"You boys should get back," said Mrs. Dinardo, removing the empty platter from the table.

"'es, 'anks, ma," said Dinardo, his mouth full of food.

"Dio mio, figlio! Chew your food before you choke," the woman scolded, shaking her head. "You boys. Always the same. Always eating and always in a hurry."

Dinardo grinned as he and Moshe headed out the back door. "Bye, ma!"

"Ciao, ragazzi," she answered tiredly, returning to her pot on the stove.

The following weekend was Moshe's birthday. Twelve years old. A new milestone. Just one more year until he became a bar mitzvah.

Marthe and Friedrich Silverstein had bedecked the tiny apartment with streamers and balloons. Blue ones as blue was Moshe's favourite colour.

Several family friends were in attendance, including Mr. and Mrs. Braunfman from downstairs. Their daughters, Susan and Barbara had come, but looked liked they'd rather be at the dentist's.

Moshe had invited Dinardo who couldn't make it because his cousin was having her wedding the same day. However, he'd sent a gift of brand new cap guns in his stead - much to Moshe's delight and Mrs. Silverstein's chagrin.

Also in attendance were young Grigor Herjavec and his mother from down the hall.

"Thank you. Thank you all for coming. And for your wonderful gifts," Mrs. Silverstein gushed as the guests dug into Moshe's birthday cake. "It's been such a lovely time having you all here with us to celebrate our son's twelfth birthday. Such a big boy!"

There was a round of applause and Moshe received more back slaps than he cared for.

"Anyways, I wanted to say, Moshe, my son, mein _bärchen_ , that we've saved the best for last."

The boy set down his fork and looked curiously at his mother.

"Your father has worked a lot of overtime to pay for this," she continued, reaching down behind the couch and removing a long package wrapped in brown paper.

"What is it?" Moshe asked as he and the guests looked on, clearly intrigued.

"You'll just have to open it and see," said Friedrich from his spot on the couch.

Marthe Silverstein smiled and handed the mysterious package to her son.

Moshe took it and gave it a shake. "Hmmm."

"Open it!" Barbara Braunfman cried impatiently.

A swat on the rear from Mrs. Braunfman quickly silenced the girl. Ignoring the interruption, Moshe glanced at his parents' faces. They were watching him closely, smiles on their faces.

"Come on, son. We're getting old here," he chuckled.

With his father's coaxing, Moshe tore off the paper to reveal the object contained within.

"What is it? What did Moshe get, mom?" he heard young Grigor ask.

"Shush. I'm not sure."

"I want to see," Sarah Braunfman whined. "Move, dad."

"What? What did he get?"

Moshe answered all these questions by standing up on the chair and proudly displaying his gift for all to see.

There were gasps all aroud.

"It's magnificent."

"Incredible."

"Where ever did you get it, Friedrich?"

Friedrich Silverstein smiled humbly and gave a non-committal shrug.

"My word, it's gorgeous," said Mrs. Braunfman.

"Can I...have a closer look?" Mrs. Herjavec asked.

"Me too! Me too!" the Braunfman sisters whined in unison.

Moshe ignored them all, cherishing this moment as he hugged his new violin.

\- 6 -

"It's a marvelous piece of equipment," Mr. Humbert remarked as he and Moshe sat in the school's band room one drizzly lunch hour the following week. "Must have cost a fortune," he added admiringly, rotating the violin in his hands.

Moshe nodded. "Yes, my father spent a lot of money to buy it."

"And you say you've been taking lessons? Because I can't admit you into the school orchestra on account of the instrument alone," Mr. Humbert replied with a chuckle.

"I can play, Mister Humbert."

"Can you?"

Moshe nodded enthusiastically.

"Alright then. Let's see what you've got."

Moshe felt nervous, but excited, as his teacher handed back the violin. Palms sweating, he took hold of it and carefully tucked it under his chin. With his left hand, he grasped the neck. Moshe was by now so accustomed to his violin that it felt comfortable, natural. It was as though the instrument was a part of him. For three months now he'd been taking lessons. In that time he'd already mastered the introductions to Corelli's Sonata de Camera and Bach's Violin Sonata No. 1.

With Mr. Humbert watching closely, Moshe took up the bow and began to play. Soft. Swift. Melodic. The sounds of Moshe's violin filled the small room, waxing, waning, and moving Mr. Humbert almost to tears. When Moshe was finished, he sat back and looked at the floor, not wanting to seem overly confident and rather anxious at how his playing had been received. But Moshe needn't have worried for the band teacher leapt to his feet and spread his arms wide.

"Moshe! That was amazing!"

"Thank you," the boy answered quietly.

"And it's no longer a matter of whether or not you're good enough for our school orchestra. It's, will-you-please-come-and-play-in-our-school-orchestra-because-we'll-be-lost-without-you!" he said in a single breath, the words tumbling out.

Grinning from ear to ear Moshe nodded. "Of course."

\- 7 -

As October drew to a close and the leaves on the trees began to brown and wither, Fourth Avenue Middle School announced its intention to host a Remembrance Day ceremony for the community. The announcement was met with a mixture of criticism and support.

"They're just kids. What do they know of war?"

"Their fathers, uncles, and older brothers fought in the war - who better than they to convey the horror of it all?"

"What an abomination. They're much too young to be exposed to war."

"Better younger than later in this day and age - have you heard the talk of war in Korea?"

Moshe didn't really have an opinion on the matter until he learned that the orchestra would be taking part in the ceremony.

"Your first public performance is in three weeks?" Mr. Lebowski asked incredulously one afternoon as Moshe sat beside him, tuning his violin.

"Yep."

"Well, we'd better get started then. What are you playing?"

The boy listed the pieces Mr. Humbert had elected to perform, among them, God Save The Queen and Rule Britannia. Though the elderly Pole had scoffed at most of them, grumbling something about "imperialistic drivel", he agreed to help Moshe prepare.

"Your sugars, Moshe."

"What's wrong, _mamma_?"

"They're still high."

Marthe Silverstein set down the glass tube she was holding and stared at her son. "Are you eating sugar? Candy? Doctor Kaczynski said you can have some once in awhile, but \- "

"No, _mamma_. I haven't had any sugar this week."

"Well, I don't know what's the matter then," she sighed.

"I'll just have a little bit of supper tonight. And I'll drink lots of water."

"Alright, _bärchen_."

"You aren't nervous?" Pasquale Dinardo asked as he and Moshe leaned against the school the following morning.

"No."

"Wow. I would be - but then again - I don't play an instrument like you do."

Moshe shrugged his shoulders. "It'll only be a few hundred people."

"Yeah, but half of those are going to be from Saint Mark's."

Moshe froze. "What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean?"

"What's this about Saint Mark's?"

Dinardo grinned and ran a hand through his hair. "The grade eights. They're coming to the ceremony. That's a lot of good-looking Catholic girls."

While Dinardo was thinking about the opposite sex, Moshe had other things on his mind. Peter Carlson was in eighth grade this year. Peter Carlson would be at the Remembrance Day ceremony.

"How is school these days, son?" Friedrich Silverstein asked one evening after supper.

"It's good, father."

"What are you learning? Are you learning lots in science and mathematics?"

Moshe nodded. "Yes."

Friedrich looked pleased. "This is good. You need to excel at science and mathematics if you are to become a doctor one day."

"And if I wish to be a professional violinist?"

"That is your plan B, _bärchen_. You must aim for something higher. A career that comes with more guarantees. Like a doctor or an engineer."

Marthe Silverstein nodded her approval. "Your father is right. Your music is a plan B. It is better to become a doctor or an engineer. If these plans fail, then you can become a musician."

What if he only wanted to be a musician?

"What do you mean you don't want to play in the ceremony?"

Moshe looked at his teacher. Mr. Humbert was clearly disappointed.

"I just don't have time. I have too much homework."

Moshe felt terrible for what he was doing, what he was saying. Especially after Mr. Humbert had pinned such high hopes on him.

"I just don't understand - a week ago you seemed so enthusiastic about being in the band, Moshe."

The boy grimaced, wishing he could melt into the floor and disappear.

"I was. It's just...things have changed."

"What's changed?"

Peter Carlson and his cronies are coming to the Remembrance Day ceremony.

Moshe shrugged. "Just...stuff."

Mr. Humbert shook his head in dismay. "Alright. If you change your mind, let me know."

"I will."

Glasses. Shorter hair. (He'd trimmed off an inch the night before with his mother's sewing scissors.) A new shirt.

Was it enough? Would he avoid being recognized?

"Moshe, you look so different today!" Marthe Silverstein exclaimed as her son entered the kitchen and took a seat at the table. "Where ever did you find those old glasses?"

"In the medicine cabinet."

"Can you see with those?"

His vision somewhat blurry, Moshe nodded. "Yes, _mamma_. I can see fine."

"Okay," his mother sighed, slapping a dollop of porridge into his bowl. "Eat your breakfast. You're going to be late for school."

Getting back into the school band wasn't as difficult as Moshe thought it would be. Though he did face a number of inquisitive stares, and several of the other students, feeling betrayed by his abrupt departure, were refusing to speak to him, Mr. Humbert had welcomed him back with open arms.

"Now for the ceremony I want everyone dressed in their Sunday best. Boys may wear a bow tie, but only black will do of course. Ladies, anything in the hair or around the neck must be black as well. If there aren't any questions concerning dress, we need to discuss set-up."

Moshe looked out the window as Mr. Humbert proceeded to detail the layout of chairs and music stands.

Just one more week and it will all be over.

"My son, I didn't know you could play so well," Friedrich Silverstein said proudly a week later as the ceremony's three hundred attendees exited the auditorium. A number of them milled around the orchestra pit waiting to congratulate the musicians, Marthe and Friedrich Silverstein among them.

"Perhaps becoming a professional musician should be plan A, after all."

Moshe grinned. "Thanks, _pappa_."

"That was super swell, man," said Dinardo, suddenly appearing. "My mom was so impressed. She said to tell you that you play really well."

Moshe felt his cheeks flush. "Tell her thanks for me."

"Who's your friend, Moshe?" asked Marthe Silverstein, dipping into their conversation.

" _Mamma_ , this is Pasquale Dinardo. This is the boy I've told you about."

The woman smiled at the young Italian. "So nice to finally meet you."

"Nice to meet you as well."

"Moshe has told me a lot about you."

"Only good things I hope."

The woman smiled. "Only good things. Why, is there something he's not telling us that we should know about you?"

Dinardo shrugged and casually ran a hand through his hair. "No, Missus Silverstein."

"I'm only joking, Pasquale," Marthe Silverstein said jovially, patting the boy's shoulder.

"Hey, look!" Moshe heard someone shout. "It's Mushy and Retardo!"

_James Cooy_.

Moshe whirled around, expecting to see his pudgy classmate. Instead, it was Peter Carlson.

"Hey, buddy. We've missed you at Saint Mark's."

Evidently his attempt to go unrecognized had failed.

"My cousin's been keeping me updated though," he continued, a smile playing across his lips as James Cooy stepped into view beside him.

"So wait a second. This Peter guy is fourteen and he's in eighth grade?"

Moshe nodded. "He was held back a year."

Dinardo shook his head in disbelief. "And he's the guy that used to pick on you at Saint Mark's?"

"Every day almost."

Dinardo whistled. "Damn. He's a big kid."

Moshe swallowed to release the knot in his throat. "Yeah."

"And he's Cooy's cousin. How weird is that?"

"It's weird, alright."

"What are you going to do? Now that he knows you go to school here?"

"Make myself invisible, I guess."

Dinardo laughed. "What!?"

Moshe smiled. "Only joking."

Though he wished he could.

\- 8 -

Fall turned into winter and by the first week of December Ottawa was covered in a thick blanket of snow. The colder temperatures worsened Friedrich Silverstein's limp (a lingering effect of his childhood bout with polio) and there were several days where he was unable to work, his leg being too painful for him to walk. On these days Marthe Silverstein would sit dutifully at her husband's side, fetching him chicken soup or lemon tea whenever he requested.

Moshe meanwhile had taken to practicing his violin with even greater zeal than before and every weekend he would sit in his room for hours producing sweet sounding tunes.

It was at about this time that Moshe began to feel differently about girls. Whereas previously he'd considered them to be unintelligible, clucking hens, he was now intrigued by their curious mannerisms. No longer were girls indiscernible creatures who sat around the school yard making up games and talking a mile a minute. Rather, they were charming and intriguing, walking, talking enigmas worthy of discovery.

There was one girl in particular that had caught Moshe's attention. Tall and blonde, Catherine Carlisle was the most popular girl in sixth grade and was always the centre of attention. Moshe knew that his chances of befriending her were slim; she was beautiful and popular while he was neither. Still, as Boston Blackie always said, anything was worth a try.

"Now class," Mrs. Braithwaite began one morning, "for this year's fundraiser, it has been decided that all the proceeds from the Christmas Ball will go to the Israel National Fund."

There were several murmurs from Moshe's classmates.

"Now, I know that this decision is rather... _unorthodox_."

She glanced at Moshe as she said this, causing him to squirm uncomfortably in his seat.

" _However_ , it is the school board that makes these decisions and therefore it is our duty to abide by them."

She turned to face Heather Parkinson whose hand was reaching impatiently for the ceiling.

"Yes, Miss Parkinson?"

"My father says that Israel needs our help to be defended against the Moslems."

"Yes, Miss Parkinson. That is the purpose of the Israel National Fund. And, in addition, to provide the good people of that new nation with proper food and clean water," Mrs. Braithwaite added with a tender smile.

Moshe felt the eyes of his classmates on him and he sunk lower in his desk.

"Why can't we just leave the Jewish people to do their own things?" Cooy demanded.

"Because, Mister Cooy, those poor people require our assistance. They lost so much during the war - as we all did," she added hastily to quell a sudden outburst of disagreeable murmurings, " _however_ unlike us their fight is not over. They are trying to establish their own country," she continued, glancing at Moshe once more, "so that all the Jewish people of the world can go and live there."

James Cooy muttered something under his breath. Moshe caught the words "waste of time."

"Now then," Mrs. Braithwaite continued, her voice taking on an even higher and even more nasally pitch than before, "I will be circulating the sign up sheet for those interested in assisting with the Ball. We need volunteers to usher, to decorate the auditorium, to sell tickets, and so on and so forth. So," she said, plucking a piece of paper from her desk and handing it to Catherine Carlisle, "let's all try and put our names beside the task we'd like to assist with. If you are in the school band," she said, casting an eye towards James Moore who Moshe knew to be one of the percussionists, "you need not sign up as Mister Humbert will be keeping you plenty busy preparing for the evening's entertainment. It is my hope that this class will have the most volunteers. So please demonstrate your school spirit by signing up. That is all. If you could turn to your readers now, we're going to pick up where we left off yesterday afternoon..."

Moshe tuned out Mrs. Braithwaite and instead concentrated on Catherine Carlisle who was busy signing her name on the volunteer sheet, hoping maybe, just maybe, he'd get the chance to ask her to the Christmas Ball.

"You can't be serious?" Stacy Meyers giggled. "Mushy asked _you_ to the Christmas Ball?"

It was several days later and Catherine Carlisle and her posse were crowded around the auditorium's east wall, tying chains of wreaths together and arranging ribbons on bells.

The pretty blonde nodded and Moshe felt his stomach do a back flip. Watching them from his spot in the orchestra pit, he couldn't help but feel stupid.

Had he actually believed that she, Catherine Carlisle, would want to go to the Ball with him?

He'd caught up with her after school in the hallway. Her entourage was absent for once and Moshe had decided to seize on the opportunity and speak with her. And while Moshe had meant to just make small talk, he struggled and blurted out his desire to attend the Ball with her.

The look she'd given him... It had been a mixed bag. Pity. Sympathy. Disgust.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

He hadn't even told Dinardo. Though word traveled fast at Fourth Avenue Middle School and it was only a matter of time before he and everyone knew. His cheeks burning at the sound of his name and the patronizing glances from Catherine's friends in his direction, Moshe busied himself arranging his sheet music.

A second later Mr. Humbert tapped his conductor's wand. "Alright, band members. We don't have a lot of time to rehearse, so let's get started. Silent Night. Everyone turn to Silent Night. I want wind instruments only. Wind instruments first. Strings, you'll be next, followed by percussion. And last but not least, brass."

There was a round of groans from the trumpets and trombones and Mr. Humbert rapped his conductor's wand on the stand in front of him. "Quiet, please. The audience isn't coming to hear our voices."

The band teacher smiled and raised his wand as the noise slowly dissipated.

"Flutes, clarinets. On my count."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I think Mushy would make a swell date. I mean, he doesn't even celebrate Christmas so it's not as though he'll be hogging the egg nog or wearing one of those stupid sweaters."

It was recess the following day and James Cooy was speaking loudly enough for everyone on the tarmac to hear.

"Catherine and Mushy, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N - "

" _Shut up, Cooy_!" Stacy Meyers hissed. "Can't you tell she's embarrassed!?"

Cooy shrugged. "I don't see what she has to be embarrassed about. Like I said, Mushy would make a fine date for the Christmas Ball."

"Ignore them," said Dinardo with a wave of his hand as he and Moshe sat on the jungle gym some twenty feet away.

Moshe said nothing and instead continued to stare at his feet. A moment of silence passed then Dinardo spoke again.

"You know, Cooy wasn't always popular. People used to pick on him too."

"Really?"

"Yeah. In second grade. All the time. He was the fattest kid in the school. He's lost some weight since then and grown a few inches. That changed things for him."

So if he was unpopular now, it could take four years for people to stop teasing him? That would be...he'd be in tenth grade by then!

Dinardo ran a hand through his hair. "Just ignore them and eventually he'll leave you alone."

"I thought you said you punched him that one time?"

"I did."

"Well, that doesn't exactly count as ignoring him..."

The young Italian grinned. "I guess you're right. Maybe you'll have to do the same."

Punch James Cooy? That would be like throwing rocks at a hornet's nest...

\- 9 -

"And brush your teeth. You know your breath smells funny when your sugars are high."

"Yes, _mamma_."

"You'll be home by nine o'clock then? No detours afterwards, alright?"

"Yes, _mamma_."

"Good. Because your father's not been feeling well again today and he can't be going out to pick you up somewhere."

"He won't have to, _mamma_. I'll be home on time."

"Alright," Marthe Silverstein sighed, running a comb through her son's hair.

"Hey!"

"What? Can't a mother brush her son's messy hair?"

"It's not messy."

"It looks - "

The woman stopped herself upon seeing her son's expression. "Alright. It looks good. Oh, and I put your violin beside the door so you don't forget it."

"Thanks, _mamma_."

"You're welcome, _bärchen_. And you play well tonight. You show those WASPs that even though we don't celebrate Christmas, we still deserve to take part in their festivities."

"Yes, _mamma_."

Moshe was tired of constantly answering his mother with "Yes, _mamma_ ", but he knew that it was paramount to give her his best behaviour in exchange for the freedom she was giving him tonight. Initially, his mother had insisted on accompanying him to the Christmas Ball, but after convincing her that no other parents would be attending (this was true for the most part as only a handful of parents were going as chaperones) she'd relented, though demanding Moshe be home by nine o'clock.

The Ball didn't end until nine o'clock - Moshe had told her that it ended at eight, but given that it had snowed that afternoon, he would leave shortly before nine and blame his late return on streetcar delays.

A ring sounded throughout the apartment and Marthe called her son's name aloud.

"That'll be Dinardo."

"Invite him in for some tea."

"No, it's alright _mamma_ ," Moshe said, hurrying to the bathroom to brush his teeth. "We're going to be late."

Marthe Silverstein sighed. "Alright. Jeepers, you're in such a hurry tonight."

He was in a hurry. But not for any reason that his mother knew about. For, while his asking Catherine Carlisle to the Ball had been a disaster, several days later a girl by the name of Anna Kingsley had asked Dinardo to tell Moshe that she'd like to go with him. Moshe had never considered asking Anna. She was nice enough. And though not the prettiest girl in sixth grade, he'd jumped for joy when Dinardo had given him the news. Her family being English however (neither Mr. or Mrs. Silverstein liked the "two-faced English"), Moshe had avoided telling his parents about her and had simply decided to keep his good luck for himself. Not a trait Marthe Silverstein had instilled him, but he knew it was for the best. After all, his mother would have insisted on speaking with Anna's parents about what sorts of things happened at the Christmas Ball and whether or not she should go along to chaperone. (And that's if his mother was willing to speak to Anna's parents at all.)

The bell buzzed again and Marthe Silverstein hollered from the living room: "MOSHE, YOUR FATHER'S TRYING TO SLEEP! HURRY UP AND LET YOUR FRIEND IN OR GET GOING!"

"I'm going, _mamma_ ," Moshe said, racing back into the hallway, his teeth brushed and his face freshly scrubbed. "I'm leaving right now. I'll see you in a few hours."

"Alright, _bärchen_. Have fun."

"Thanks, _mamma_. See you later."

"Tschüs."

"So where's your date?"

"I don't know," Moshe replied, glancing around the packed auditorium. "I guess we should have arranged a meeting spot."

Dinardo ran a hand through his hair, forgetting about the copious amount of thick Bryl cream he'd applied to it.

"Damn it."

Moshe looked at his friend as he wiped his hand on the edge of a table cloth.

"Maybe she's not here yet."

"Maybe," Moshe answered, resuming his survey of the sea of people in front of them. "But she said she'd be here by seven. I mean, isn't dinner served at seven? I'd better get over to the orchestra pit. We're playing while everyone else eats. We don't get to eat until later. There's Mister Humbert already warming up the winds."

"Well, you'd better get goin' then," Dinardo said as he eyed a flock of girls standing beside them and talking excitedly. "I'll catch up with you later. I have to find Juliana anyway. If I don't see you, we'll meet outside the front doors about ten minutes to nine. That should get you home at a quarter after."

Moshe nodded in agreement. "Alright. I'll catch up with you later."

The boys parted and while Dinardo made his way over to the buffet table to search for Juliana, Moshe wove through the crowd towards the orchestra pit, his violin case slung over one shoulder.

"Moshe! Finally! I was worried you weren't coming."

Mr. Humbert looked anxious and excited all at once.

"Er...sorry, Mister Humbert. Roads were bad. Street cars were slow."

"Yes, of course. Now, take your seat so we can get the strings warmed up."

"Yes, Sir."

As the stragglers found their seats in the auditorium, the Fourth Avenue band completed their warm up and then began their Christmas presentation. Beginning with Hark The Herald Angels Sing, they blew through several crowd pleasers and closed the first act with Silver Bells.

"Now I want everyone to get their food quickly and return here as soon as possible. You can have...oh...let's say...half an hour to mix and mingle with your friends and family. But then I want you back here. We've got two more acts to get through."

"Yes, Mister Humbert."

"Thanks, Mister Humbert."

"See you in thirty minutes, Mister Humbert."

Moshe followed his bandmates towards the buffet table. All the other attendees had already dished up their plates and were digging into their second courses. Moshe scanned the sea of faces for Anna, but couldn't find her.

"Have some ham, Jew boy."

It was Lewis Myers speaking, Stacy Myer's older brother. A second later, a crude sneer on his face, the boy thrust a fork forwards and dropped a slab of cooked maple ham onto Moshe's plate.

"I can't eat that, Lewis."

"Sure you can."

"No. I can't."

"Well, what? Are you going to let it go to waste? You know that's wasteful right? Not to eat all of your supper."

There were several of his band mates watching him now and Moshe felt his throat grow tight. He hadn't expected this. Not tonight.

"I'll have it," said a voice from behind him. Moshe whirled around to see Anna. She was dressed in a beige dress and wore a string of pearls around her neck. Most important, she was smiling at him.

"Anna."

"Moshe."

"I didn't - "

"Here," she said, seizing his plate. "I'll have your supper and you can have mine. I like ham. There's roast beef on my plate back at the table. You can eat that, right?"

Not really as it's probably not kosher, but for you Anna Kingsley, anything.

"Sure, I can eat that," he gulped as the girl stepped in front of him and glared across the buffet table at Lewis Myers.

"You shouldn't tease people when you've got glasses as thick as Coke bottles, Lewis Myers."

Several of the students gathered round the buffet table broke into laughter and switched their attention to Lewis who was now blushing fiercely.

"And good Christian girls like you, Anna Kingsley, shouldn't be mixing with guys like Moshe Silverstein," he spat.

"Who I choose to attend the Ball with is _my_ business! Not yours!" she exclaimed loudly. "Come on, Moshe," she added as several parent chaperones approached the buffet table, no doubt to see what the raucous was.

"Er..."

Anna was strong for a girl her size and she yanked him from the queue. Her hand felt warm and he was captivated by the smell of her perfume.

Guiding him across the auditorium, through the checker board of tables and all the people sitting at them, Anna led him to two empty chairs.

"This is probably why you couldn't find me," she said as she set down her plate and motioned for Moshe to sit where there was already one. The roast beef and potatoes suggested that this was hers.

"Yeah, I looked for you earlier, but I didn't see you," Moshe answered, glancing around at the other students seated at their table. Recognizing several, he wasn't surprised that they were seated at the last table in the corner of the auditorium. For this was obviously the "reject table" and these were the "rejects" of Fourth Avenue Middle School. These were the students Dinardo had recommended he avoid if he wanted to fit in. Yet, if "fitting it" meant being friends with and behaving like James Cooy and Lewis Myers, then he didn't want to "fit in".

"How's the roast beef?" Anna asked, interrupting Moshe from his thoughts.

"Excellent," he answered, stabbing a second piece with his fork and popping it into his mouth. "Mmm. Tender. Not at all tough like my mom's."

Anna giggled.

"How's the ham?"

"Delicious. My uncle owns a pig farm so we get lots of cuts of ham. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter...surprised I'm not sick of it yet?" she asked with the most beautiful smile Moshe had ever seen.

He nodded and went for his water glass as he spluttered. "...Yeah..."

"Well, I guess it's just that I've grown up with it. So I'm used to it. Dad's a butcher too, so meat is pretty much the family business."

Moshe walked on clouds as he made his way back to the orchestra pit.

Anna Kingsley and her chestnut brown hair. Anna Kingsley and her hazel brown eyes. Anna Kingsley and that incredible smile...

He was feeling things he'd never felt before \- his heart was aflutter, his arms and legs were tingly with joyous suspense and there was a tightness in what his English Torah called "his manhood".

"Moshe. Hurry and take your seat. We're on Ode To Joy. You've got half a minute to get ready."

"Yes, Mister Humbert."

An hour later, the evening's entertainment through, Moshe packed up his violin. His arms and neck were sore from all the playing and he massaged the latter as Dinardo made his way towards the orchestra pit with a girl Moshe didn't recognize.

"Moshe. You haven't met Juliana, have you?"

He looked at the pretty girl hanging on his friend's arm. "No, we haven't. Moshe Silverstein, pleased to meet you."

"Pleasure."

"Juliana's dad's coming to pick her up in fifteen minutes. You mind if we stay a bit longer? I know you said you wanted to leave about this time."

Moshe glanced at his pocket watch. It was already five minutes to nine. If he left now, the earliest he'd make it home would be half past. He didn't want to appear square though.

"Sure...I'll go and see what Anna's up to."

"Oh, she left already," said Juliana. "I saw her leaving with her mom. They go to my church," she continued, "so I know their family pretty well."

Moshe's face fell. _Why hadn't she said anything_?

Juliana must have noticed his disappointment however, because she added, "her mom looked kind of upset - she practically pulled Anna out of here - maybe something came up?"

_Was Mrs. Kingsley unhappy Anna had attended the Ball or was Mrs. Kingsley unhappy Anna had attended the Ball with him_?

"Anyways, man," Dinardo cut in, "Juliana and I only have fifteen minutes so we're gonna go outside."

The grin on his face and the flushed, expectant look on 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 blocks 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 chapter 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 old boxer from earlier that afternoon still echoing in his head.

"Boxing, Moshe, is just like making music. There's a rhythm to it. And not every boxer can see it. You can though. You're a musician."

"How can a musician be a boxer?"

"By being a musician, of course. Isn't it obvious? The fight is your music. Your fists and your feet, your instruments. Read the fight like you read music and let your fists fly and your feet move accordingly. It's not a race to draw blood."

"It isn't?"

Lenny had chuckled at this. "No! A boxing match is a performance, Moshe. When you're in the ring, imagine yourself performing one of them long compositions written by some famous composer...Beethoven or Bach or whoever...You don't come out flying, guns blazing, throwing everything you have at the guy. No. It's just like your music. You start slow. You feel your opponent out. What's he doing? What's he capable of? You find the rhythm. And then, and only then, do you slowly you build towards your rousing finale: the knockout."

\- 12 -

"Moshe. Come here."

"Yes, _mamma_? What's the matter?"

"You tell me."

It was the following day and Moshe hadn't been home from school for more than an hour.

Glancing at his mother, he could see that she was clearly angry. Though it was still simmering. His answers would determine the outcome.

"What did I do? Am I in trouble?"

"Sit down."

Moshe sat at the table.

"I received a telephone call from _Herr_ Lebowski this morning."

Uh oh.

"He told me that you haven't been going to your lessons. Is this true?"

When Moshe didn't answer, she repeated herself. "Is this true, _bärchen_? Would you do something like this?"

Moshe looked down at the table. There was a crumb from the toast he'd had that morning and he picked it up with a wet finger tip.

"Moshe. Is it true what _Herr_ Lebowski has told me this morning?"

His mother was speaking German now. It would only be another minute until she exploded.

"Moshe."

Deciding it best to answer his mother before she got out her wooden soup ladle ( _perhaps she'll just yell at me)_ , Moshe nodded slowly, carefully, but not daring to look up from the table, hoping his meekness would keep the worst of his mother's wrath at bay.

" _You should be ashamed_!" she seethed. "When your father works so hard for that money! And in his condition! You know how his leg hurts him in the winter!"

"I'm sorry, _mamma_! But I've been taking boxing lessons. It's only for awhile -"

"Boxing!? What did I say about this boxing!? I said it was violent foolishness! Grown men beating on each other like crazed monkeys! YOU WAIT UNTIL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME AND HEARS OF THIS!"

Moshe would have preferred it for his father to beat him. A few welts on the backside and, as with his mother, all would be forgotten within two or three days. Instead he had to endure the disappointed look his father gave him every time he saw him. That tired defeated one that can be seen on the faces of men who have given up. And try as he might, for the next few days, nothing Moshe said or did would erase that look from his father's face. Shining his father's shoes, carrying in the groceries, waxing the floors. None of it. And Moshe couldn't help but feel as though he'd driven a knife through his father's heart.

His father's disappointment however was overshadowed by his mother's anger. Twice that evening Moshe had endured backside wallops courtesy of her soup ladle and twice she'd threatened to send him to the Hassidic school if he didn't "smarten up."

It was with that in mind that Moshe found himself stuck to the sidewalk several days later, caught between two choices. Did he head west on Somerset and catch the streetcar to Mr. Lebowski's? Or did he turn and head east on Somerset, to Lenny's Gym? Two choices, two directions, two outcomes.

He certainly didn't want to be sent to Baal Shem Tov, the Hassidic school on Bell Street. Those Jews wore funny hats and kept their hair in long braids and studied the Talmud for hours at a time. But neither did he want to let himself be beaten to a pulp by James Cooy in front of the entire school.

What to do, what to do...

He wanted his violin back and since he didn't have fifty dollars, he had to fight. And if he had to fight, he had to train. But if he chose the gym over violin lessons, he'd get another walloping and his mother just might send him to that school.

Agonizing over his decision he didn't see Lenny come up behind him.

"Hey, kid. You comin' to the gym today?"

"Lenny!"

"You look surprised. Like you seen a ghost or something."

The grizzled, old boxer held a milk crate under each arm, both of them filled with groceries.

"No...it's just..."

Did he tell Lenny what was tormenting him? Would he understand? Or would he see him as being yellow.

"My parents don't want me to box," said Moshe finally.

"What was that?"

"I said my parents won't allow me to box! They think it's too violent."

Lenny chuckled and raised one of the milk crates onto his shoulder. "Let me tell you, sonny, 'was boxing what kept me alive. Bein' the only Jewish kid on the block back in the day. Course it might be worse these days..."

"Did you get into a lot of fights?"

"Every day," Lenny answered, grinning widely. "You see kid, us Jews, we have to be fighters. 'Cause nobody wants us in their backyard. But we gotta live somewhere, right?"

Moshe nodded, glancing to his left as a dozen people de-boarded a bus.

"OTHERWISE, WE GET SWEPT AWAY LIKE THIS!" Lenny yelled as the numerous bodies of those that had just descended from the bus wedged between them.

Lenny was right. And he had a feeling his parents would see it the same way. They just needed to be told by the right person.

When the crowd had finally dissipated, Moshe was able to catch up to the old boxer. "Say, Lenny. Could you do something for me?"

"And so you see Mister and Missus Silverstein, I believe that Moshe here could really benefit from a few months of training with me. I'm not sure if Moshe's told you, but I used to fight competitively. Back in the day when guys would coat their gloves with lye and bite you if you got too close. It's a much safer sport these days, is boxing."

Marthe Silverstein stirred her tea, waiting politely for Lenny to finish speaking.

"Mister Katzman -" she began.

"So it's your decision to make of course - but if Moshe were my boy -"

"Please. Let me speak. Moshe is my son after all."

The old boxer nodded. "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt. Have your say."

All eyes were on Marthe now as she took a deep breath and continued speaking.

"Mister Katzman, as I was saying, we (as she said this she motioned towards Friedrich who was seated beside her) don't believe that violence is the way to solve problems. And we have raised Moshe to be a peaceful and law-abiding citizen."

"And what about when the law fails to protect its citizens, Marthe?"

It was Friedrich who had spoken and all eyes shifted to him. Moshe could see that his mother looked surprised.

"Germany. Our country. They made us the enemy. In our own country! Where we were born and raised!"

There was a bitterness to his voice and Moshe was glad to see something other than a look of disappointment on his father's face.

"Friedrich."

"Marthe. I'm tired of it."

His father's voice was trembling now and his hands, well-worn from years of menial labour, shook forcefully.

"We've put up with the closeted racism in this country for too long. It's nothing like Germany, but it still exists. Remember the story Mister Braunfman told us the other evening? About how his boss left a ham on his desk as a practical joke? And Mister Gilbert. Remember Mister Gilbert? The man who fixed our vacuum cleaner? He was beaten nearly to death last summer by those teenagers."

"Friedrich - "

"No, Marthe. I'm tired of it. So tired. I'm tired of lying down. My son," the Silverstein patriarch continued, turning to face Moshe, "can you ever forgive me?"

The boy looked at his father, dumbfounded. Lenny's expression was equally as incredulous.

"I have shamed you. Shamed you for stepping up and trying to behave as a man would."

"Father, I was wrong -"

"No, Moshe. I have wronged you. Greatly. You decided to take up boxing to gain control of a bad situation. Am I right? These boxing lessons - it's for the boys at school - right?"

"Yes, but father, I was wrong. I shouldn't have -"

"No, my son. I was wrong. _You_ were right. I am a foolish old man who thought he knew best. As it turns out, I was greatly mistaken. Greatly mistaken."

"Friedrich -"

"Marthe, my wife, _mein lieben_. Our son is becoming a man. Next year he will become a bar mitzvah. Do we really want our son, our Moshe, to be a victim?"

"No, of course not, but -"

Friedrich raised a hand, silencing his wife. "What he learns now, what happens to him now, will forever shape who he is. Will shape the man he is to become. And my son will not be victimized as I have. As our people have. Absolutely not. My son will learn to fight, and you, _Herr_ Katzman," he said defiantly, turning to Lenny, "will teach him."

"One, two, three. Yes. Again. One, two, three. Remember to move. He's bigger than you so movement is key. Light on the feet, hard with the jabs. One, two, 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 beloved 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 fighters.

"You've got him, Moshe," said Dinardo as he and his brother stepped backwards into the crowd. "Remember what Lenny taught you."

Remember what Lenny taught me. Cooy's a bear. I'm a mosquito. I'm small. I have to move. Pester my opponent. Wear him down. Then move in. Two or three combos and he should hit the ground. Right jab to the chin. Left hook. Right hook. One, two, three. I can do that. I think. What if he grabs onto me?

"Then you bite him kid!" Lenny's words echoed through him as Cooy rolled up his sleeves, a menacing sneer playing across his face.

"Take off your jacket, Moshe!" someone yelled from behind him. Was that Paolo? Jacket off. Jacket off. I'll be able to move better.

Moshe slipped out of his jacket and cast it aside. Ten feet away, Cooy pointed to his violin case which presently sat at Peter Carlson's feet.

"You want that back, you'd better fight me."

Moshe ignored his opponent and glanced at the violin case. It was waiting for him to take it home. His beloved violin. Oh, how he missed it.

With a sudden rush of adrenaline Moshe rushed forwards. He knew Lenny wouldn't approve of a sudden attack, but Lenny had also said to trust your instincts and that's what he was doing. In an instant Moshe had closed the gap between him and Cooy and with his momentum behind him, aimed a flying right at his opponent.

Wham.

Moshe felt his fist connect with Cooy's ear. Pain shot through his hand as his knuckles collapsed against the pudgy boy's thick skull.

"YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

Moshe watched as Cooy bent to his knees, clutching the right side of his head.

"AGAIN, MOSHE! HIT HIM AGAIN!"

The crowd was really getting into it now - he could feel it - and all around him Moshe heard their shouts.

"AGAIN! AGAIN!"

"KICK HIS ASS, SILVERSTEIN!"

"CRUSH THAT JEW!"

"MAKE HIM PAY, MOSHE!"

All in all, more of them seemed to be cheering for him and Moshe felt his chest grow six inches larger. But Cooy was angry now and barreling down on him, fists raised high.

"You're dead, you little shit!"

Woosh.

Moshe felt a rush of air as he ducked just in time to avoid being struck by Cooy's left hook.

Jab to the stomach.

Cooy recoiled, taking a step backwards.

Light on the feet. Keep moving. Wear him down.

Woosh. Another miss.

Moshe danced. Backwards, forwards, side to side, ducking and weaving. Cooy, panting, followed him helplessly around the ring, aiming punch after punch yet never finding his target.

After several minutes Cooy abandoned his boxer's stance in favour of a wrestler's stance. Intent on tackling him, Moshe knew he had to be careful not to get caught. After dodging another punch, Moshe stopped to catch his breath. At that moment, with arms outstretched, the pudgy boy lunged at Moshe and caught him by the waist.

Wham. Jab to nose.

Cooy released him and hit the ground.

There was a round of oohs and aahs from the spectators followed by shouting:

"COME ON! GET UP!"

"MOSHE, MOSHE, HE'S OUR MAN, IF HE CAN'T DO IT, NO ONE CAN!"

"You've got this, man."

Moshe recognized Dinardo's voice.

"Wait him out a bit more then finish him. You've got this."

Moshe didn't dare turn to search the crowd for his friend. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on Cooy and watched as the pudgy boy pulled himself slowly to his feet. Blood poured from his nose and he wiped it on his shirt sleeve. His gaze moved towards Moshe and then, with a loud roar, he flew towards him, arms flailing wildly. Moshe braced himself, knowing he would have to hit his target hard and true.

" _Eyes open, arms up."_

Lenny's words echoed through him. He thought of his violin. Of his father, working day and night to pay for it. Of all the suffering and anguish Cooy and his cousin had caused him. A second later, as Cooy plowed into him, he let loose a stiff right jab. The sound of his fist connecting with the boy's skull was deafening as they fell to the ground, Cooy on top of him.

Gasping for air, Moshe writhed and squirmed out from under the heavy boy in a panic. But he needn't have panicked. For Cooy wasn't moving and the crowd held their breath as Paolo Dinardo stepped into the ring and rolled the boy over with his foot.

"He's breathing...but he's out cold."

Excited chatter broke out amongst the student spectators. Moshe didn't care that he'd won. All he wanted was his violin.

"My violin," said Moshe, moving towards Peter Carlson. The fourteen year old glared at him, as though he would be next to face off against Moshe, but one look from Paolo Dinardo and the eighth grader shifted his gaze to the violin case at his feet.

"Here," he muttered, picking it up and tossing it in Moshe's direction. And then it was all over. Moshe took up his violin case as several raucous students, cheering loudly, hoisted him onto their shoulders and began to chant: "MOSHE, MOSHE, HE'S OUR MAN! IF HE CAN'T DO IT, NO ONE CAN!"

\- 14 -

"Stupid Valentine's Day..."

"Why? What's wrong with Valentine's Day?"

It was four days later and Moshe and Dinardo sat in the library, working on a research project for social studies.

"What's not wrong with it? Juliana wants a dozen red roses. I can't afford a dozen red roses."

Moshe looked off into the distance as he pondered his friend's dilemma.

"How much do a dozen red roses cost anyway?"

"About three dollars."

Moshe felt in his pocket for the two dollar bills his mother had given him earlier that day for lunch.

"Tell you what," he said, taking the money from his pocket and laying it on the table, "we go to yours for lunch and I'll give you my lunch money."

Dinardo looked at him. "Really? For real?"

Moshe grinned. "Of course. Why not? Besides, it's not as though I have anyone to buy a dozen red roses for."

"Are you sure about that?"

Moshe glanced at his friend and then whirled around to see what Dinardo was looking at.

"Anna..."

"Hey, Moshe."

"I - "

"Please. Don't speak. I have to explain what happened at the Christmas Ball. Do you mind if we...take a walk?"

Moshe looked back at his friend.

"Don't worry about me, man."

"Well, here," he said, pushing the two dollar bills towards his friend. "Take this money and buy those roses. I'll see you at lunch."

"Thanks. You're a pal, Moshe."

"Don't mention it."

As it turned out, Anna's maternal grandfather, William Bates, had suffered a fatal heart attack the morning of the Ball and when Mrs. Kingsley got the call, she raced to the school to fetch Anna. Mr. Kingsley had driven them to the train station and Anna and her mother had taken the next train to Winnipeg.

There they had spent the next four weeks with family and friends, saying their goodbyes and arranging the sale and auction of the sundry items of her grandfather's estate. By the time they'd returned to Ottawa, on the second of February, Anna had so much school work to catch up on that she locked herself in her room for an entire week, working day and night, and only coming out to eat. Though far removed from the world in her small ten foot by ten foot bedroom, she'd heard of Moshe's fight with James Cooy. Several of her friends (many of which had been cheering for Moshe during and after the event), had told her every detail.

"I'm not really one for fighting - "

"And me neither," Moshe had interrupted her. "I don't want to be a violent person - "

"However," Anna had continued as she'd pressed a finger to his lips, "James Cooy is a special case. He only understands violence. He used to tease me in fourth grade until I hit him over the head with my lunchbox. I was suspended for a week, but it was worth it."

Moshe was pleased that she'd understood and even more so when she'd invited him to supper the following Saturday.

"Mother would like very much to meet you. She heard you play at the Remembrance Day ceremony and she was very impressed. Mother majored in music at university until she dropped out to get married and have my sister and I. But she's always been fond of music and anyone who plays an instrument. So she already likes you."

Moshe was flattered. "I'd like very much to come to yours for supper."

"And I already told her, no pork."

Moshe laughed. "Alright."

"So Saturday at six?"

"I'll be there."

They'd parted ways then, agreeing to go for ice cream after school with Dinardo and Juliana.

\- 15 -

"You're happy for a boy who's still got four months of school," Marthe Silverstein chided as Moshe made his way groggily into the kitchen the following morning. "What's got you walking on a rainbow?"

Moshe sat down at the table where he found his father's coffee mug empty, but still warm.

"I have a girlfriend, mamma."

"A girlfriend!?"

"Yes, mamma," he said, helping himself to a slice of toast.

Marthe Silverstein rushed to the table and sat down. "At your age. You're only twelve. What do you know of love?"

"I know I love Anna Kingsley."

"An – na Keeng – slee..."

"And I know that I'm going to marry her someday."

Marthe Silverstein burst out laughing then. "You wait until I tell your father tonight. Ooohhhh. He is going to split his sides over this."

The woman sighed and looked at her son. "My Moshe. Twelve years old and he's found the girl he's going to marry."

Epilogue

The man seated at the dressing room table glanced at the picture beside him as he finished combing down his wet hair. Ten years they'd been married and still the hazel eyes and chestnut hair of the woman in it set his heart aflutter.

Anna...

A sudden knocking at the door drew his attention away from the picture and he looked into the mirror to see who would enter.

"Mister Silverstein?"

It was Herman.

"Yes, Herman. What is it?"

"There's a man here to see you."

"Dinardo?"

He'd already spoken to Dinardo after the show.

"No. Someone else."

"Well, let him in then."

Straightening his bow tie, the man rose from his chair and turned to greet his visitor.

If it wasn't Dinardo, then who? Another reporter? He'd already given an interview last night. He'd seen the story in that morning's Ottawa Citizen.

A man stepped into the room then. Blonde. Chubby. Fleeting blue eyes. Dressed in a faded grey blazer and pants that were far too short.

"Mister Silverstein?"

"Yes? How may I help you?"

"I don't know if you remember me..."

The man glanced at the visitor, trying to determine whether or not he recognized him.

"I'm sorry, but have we met before?"

"Yes. Quite a few years ago. Twenty to be exact."

"Under what circumstances exactly?"

"Well, er..." the man coughed. "We went to school together."

School...twenty years ago...he'd been at Fourth Avenue Middle School...

"James Cooy?"

The man's face broke into a wide smile. "You remember me! Honey, come quick! He remembers me! See, I told you!"

The man watched as Herman stepped aside and allowed a second visitor to enter. Small and petite, with two blue eyes spread unnaturally apart, the woman appeared to be expecting.

"How do you do?" she said politely, performing a rather unsteady curtsy.

"Fine, thank you."

"Jim said you two used to go to school together? Wow. Never thought my husband knew anyone famous."

The man's ears reddened. "Well, I'm not exactly famous, but – "

"Course you are!" Cooy exclaimed. "Why, your name's in the play bill here, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, but – "

"So you're famous! Moshe Silverstein. Professional violinist. That was a great concert tonight, my friend. Blew me away. You know Liz has tried to bring me to these things before, but I've never been the slightest bit interested. Not much of a music man, you see. But it was our anniversary and I figured I had do something special, what with another baby on the way and all and seeing as we rarely get a night out. So I got us tickets to the National Symphony Orchestra. Imagine my surprise when I read through the play bill and I saw your name! Your name. Moshe Silverstein."

The tall, well-dressed musician smiled to be polite. He'd never forgiven James Cooy for how he'd treated him at grade school and he wasn't sure he was ready to now. Yet here this man was. Chubby as ever with a wife on his arm and a baby on the way. And the woman had explained that this wasn't their first. Did they have a whole brood of them at home? Being watched by one of the grandparents perhaps? Moshe's eyes moved to the man's trousers. They were obscenely too short for him, putting his worn, grey socks and pasty white legs on display for all to see. His shoes, with their scuff marks and ratty laces left much to be desired. But, he meant no harm. Ignorant and uncultured, James Cooy had simply been a boy who had lost his father in the war fighting the Nazis and now that boy had grown into a man. He'd been the worst thing in his life in sixth grade...but yet, here he was. Standing before him all these years later. A lopsided grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye. Yes, James Cooy had been terrible to him and it wouldn't be improper to hate the goofy looking man...

Moshe let out a sigh.

The man deserved his pity, not his hate. Wasn't there enough hate in this world already?

Smiling and straightening his jacket, Moshe took a step forwards and extended his hand."It's been a long time, James. Won't you and your wife come in for a quick night cap?"

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Originally from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Adrien Leduc makes his home in Ottawa with his fiancée and their two crazy cats. He is a graduate of Carleton University (BA '10) and is passionate about Canadian history. An avid reader and writer, Adrien hopes to write and publish many more books in his lifetime.
