The Hero Two Doors Down

by Sharon Robinson

  Dad pulled up a chair beside me. “What’s gotten into you? Your mother and I haven’t had any trouble from you in a long time. Are you angry about something?”

  I started to cry. “Jackie’s moving off Tilden Avenue. I won’t ever see him again,” I said between sobs. Jackie was already away barnstorming, and I wouldn’t see him for weeks. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like when he was gone for good.

  “Come here, son,” Dad said, pulling my arm so I’d stand up. “Dry up your tears. You’ve made a special friendship with the Robinsons. They don’t have to live next door for you to continue being friends. We’ll help you stay in touch.”

  “You mean I can see the Robinsons even when they move away?”

  “That’s right,” Dad said. “Plus, we’ll go to Ebbets Field when the Dodgers are in town. You can write letters to the Robinsons. And I’ll bet you can even visit.” Dad paused. “It won’t be the same as having them as neighbors, but you’ll always be friends. As you get older, son, you’ll make lots more friends. That’s the way it works.”

  “I hope so,” I said, reaching over to hug my father.

  “Promise me you’ll settle back down at school. That’s your job now. You can’t afford to be pulled out of class for misbehaving, and I certainly can’t afford to miss work. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Dad,” I replied. “I’ll finish my letter to Joel now. I’m going to tell him that name-calling doesn’t solve a problem. Maybe we can start being friends.”

  A month later, I was outside playing football with some of the kids in the neighborhood when Jackie returned home from barnstorming. It was a warm, early November afternoon. My friends and I had taken over the block for our game.

  “Jackie!” I yelled as he stepped out of the cab.

  Jackie dropped his bags on the stoop and walked over to us.

  “Hey, Steve!” he said to me, then greeted the others.

  “Glad you’re back,” I said.

  “Me too,” Jackie replied.

  “Throw me a pass, Jackie,” I pleaded.

  “Just one, Steve,” he agreed.

  I handed him the football, then turned to run down the street. When I’d reached a nice distance, I turned back around and skipped backward, waiting for Jackie to release the football. I lifted my arms to catch the ball, suddenly realizing that this was a ball spiraling in my direction, thrown by a professional athlete who’d played semipro football with the Honolulu Bears! Yikes!

  My heart pounded. My knees buckled. My hands began to sting, and the ball hadn’t even reached them yet. Was I crazy?

  The ball came in so hard against my chest that it literally knocked me over.

  I hit the ground with a thump.

  The ball was still cradled between my hands and my chest. I lifted the ball high above my head and let out a roar!

  On Sunday, December 19, we were walloped by a snowstorm that lasted twenty hours, leaving behind almost twenty inches of snow and record cold temperatures. I watched the whole thing from the windows of our house, counting down the hours before Sena and I could go sledding.

  While I was dreaming of snowball fights and racing down the big hill in the park, my mother was making plans for our big Hanukkah gathering. This year, Hanukkah would begin on December 26. The first night was a big deal. Our house would be filled with grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins. I loved everything about Hanukkah except getting dressed up for dinner and being beaten in the dreidel game by my older cousins. Mom would make the potato pancakes, applesauce, and sugary donuts first thing in the morning; set out the bowl of wooden dreidels and foil-wrapped chocolate Hanukkah gelt; then place the menorah and candies on the dining room table just before company arrived.

  Naturally, the very thought of getting eight gifts made me giddy. Mom pretty much knew what I wanted, but I made a list and gave it to her when I came down for breakfast.

  “Can I go sledding today?” I asked as soon as I walked into the kitchen.

  “Please eat your breakfast, and then we’ll discuss plans for the day,” my mother said.

  “Okay,” I replied.

  “How about scrambled eggs with your bagel?”

  “No, thank you.”

  My mother was standing next to the counter with a wet cloth in her right hand and our menorah in front of her.

  “Did you sleep well?” Mom asked.

  “Yep,” I replied, settling into my chair and slapping jelly on my bagel.

  Mom looked at me as though she had something important to say. “Steve, you know that there is a war in Israel,” Mom began.

  I nodded. The Arab-Israeli War had been a dinner table conversation for months. I didn’t really understand war. How did they get started? Who was right? Who was wrong? Was the fight for freedom or land? Did children still go to school? Since I’d never experienced a war, it was strange to me.

  “Maybe we could bring all the children in Israel to America so they’ll be safe,” I suggested.

  Mom dropped the cloth she’d been using to clean our menorah and walked around the kitchen counter to take a seat at the table. “Steve, you’re the kindest boy,” she said. “I can just imagine millions of Jewish and Arab children coming to America so they can go to school, be loved, and live in a safe place. Unfortunately, that is not possible. But we can help make a difference in their lives.”

  “Really? How?” I asked, happy to know there was a solution.

  “Your father and I have talked about this a lot and we have a suggestion. Next Sunday we’ll celebrate the first night of Hanukkah. The family will come to our house and we’ll begin our holiday. Your father and I would like to make this first night of Hanukkah have a special meaning beyond a family gathering and the exchange of gifts. We want it to truly be about our Jewish faith. You know how we talk about ‘doing a mitzvah’?”

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s doing a good deed, like when we visit the home for old people and plant flowers in their garden.”

  “That’s right, Steve. On Sunday when your father lights the first candle, he will say a special prayer asking for peace in Israel and then tell our family of our plan to send money to help support both Arab and Jewish children in Israel,” Mom said.

  “But the children are so far away. How will we get money to them?”

  “We will send money to them through the United Nations organization called UNICEF. It helps children all around the world. Since the Arab-Israeli War began, UNICEF has been providing food and supplies to Palestinians who had to flee from their homes, and to Israeli women and children who are caught in the middle of a war. We will ask your grandparents, aunts, uncles, and even you and your cousins to give us money to send to UNICEF.”

  “I only have two dollars,” I said.

  Mom chuckled. “We have another idea of how you and your cousins can contribute.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, we want you to give up one of your Hanukkah gifts,” Mom said.

  “You’re going to send toys to the kids in Israel?” I asked.

  “No. They need food and blankets more than toys. Instead of buying you eight gifts, we’ll buy you seven smaller gifts. The money that we save will be added to money your father and I have put aside to send to Israel. Your aunts and uncles are asking your cousins to make the same small sacrifice. You and your cousins will be doing a mitzvah.”

  I wrestled with Mom’s words for a few minutes. I put my bagel down and sat back in my chair. It made sense, but I was a little disappointed. “Where do children go to get away from bombs?” I asked.

  “Sometimes, they hide with their families in shelters dug underground. But since bombs and gunfire can happen all day or night, they sometimes hide under their desks at school or in corners of buildings. Truth is, there is no real hiding place. Kids are innocent victims of war.”

  “I’ve been trying to picture war,” I said. “Where would we go if Tilden Avenue was hit by a bomb?”

  “War is hard to imagine. I pray you will ne
ver have to experience it,” Mom said. “We’re safe here.”

  Up until this very moment, I hadn’t felt connected to the Arab-Israeli War. Now I was. Mom was right—children were innocent victims. They didn’t start wars. I felt sorry that they had to grow up afraid of death. Maybe doing a good deed would make some of the children feel less afraid. “I get it, Mom.”

  Mom lifted her right hand and settled it on top of mine. “I knew you’d understand, Stephen. You have the heart of a healer.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means that you care about others. That’s a good way to be,” Mom said, planting a kiss on my cheek.

  I got up from my chair and walked over to the counter where my list lay, untouched. To do a good deed, I’d have to give up something expensive from my list. I picked it up and crossed out the Diesel Road Roller, a toy I’d seen advertised in the Brooklyn Eagle. I knew that it was my most expensive gift.

  “Thank you, Steve,” Mom said as she smiled down at me. “I have one more request.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “We’d like to include a letter from you to the children along with the check.”

  “What would I say?”

  “Think about what you’d like to say if you had a friend who lived in Israel and was surrounded by war,” Mom said, handing me a pad of paper. “Write what’s in your heart.”

  “To who?”

  “You could start ‘Dear Friend,’ ” Mom suggested.

  I sat back down and tried to imagine the real sounds of gunfire and bombs going off around me. My hands trembled as I began to write.

  Dear friend,

  My name is Stephen Satlow. I live in Brooklyn, New York, where there is no war. My family and I want to help, but we can’t stop the bombing. We’re sending you money so you can eat and blankets so you won’t be cold. We will pray that peace will come soon and you can live where it is safe. You are so brave. I hope we meet someday.

  Sincerely,

  Steve

  By early Monday morning, the snowstorm had finally slowed, leaving the usually bustling city stilled under mountains of white powder. Only a few cars, taxis, and buses braved the elements to crawl up newly plowed streets narrowed by rows of trapped cars.

  Despite the snowstorm, school was not closed. From my bedroom window, I could see kids bursting out of apartment buildings and low-rise brick houses, intent on adventure as they walked to school.

  Once class let out, the real fun began. Dressed in layers of flannel and wool, I met Sena outside my house. We set out dragging our sleds to a patch of open hilly property.

  “Be careful,” my mother yelled down to us from the top landing of our front stoop. “The roads are barely plowed. Cars will be slipping and sliding with drivers who think they’re in control but aren’t.”

  “We’ll be fine, Mom,” I yelled back.

  “Keep your eyes alert to icy patches.”

  Sena and I proceeded up Tilden Avenue past our school and onward. For a while, we pretended not to be cold. Instead, I kept telling myself that we were on an adventure.

  “I can barely feel my fingertips,” Sena complained. We were just two blocks from my house.

  “Put your free hand inside your coat pocket,” I suggested.

  “Can’t,” she said.

  “How come?”

  “Because I need both hands to pull this sled,” Sena told me. “It’s heavy, Steve.”

  I felt sorry for Sena. She was about my height but thinner. I wasn’t big enough to pull two sleds. “Three more blocks, Sena. Surely you can make that?” I peeked over at her, hoping she’d rally to the challenge.

  “Didn’t say I changed my mind,” she muttered.

  Finally, we reached our destination. It was a neighborhood winter wonderland. The hills were packed with kids sledding. Laughter and screams pierced the snowy calm. Snowballs were being hurled from every direction.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Sena smiling and thought she was up to something. I dropped my sled and turned away from her, looking for a good spot to sled. A ball of wet, cold snow splattered against my jacket. I felt the sting against my left shoulder and turned back to Sena. Grabbing a wad of snow, I hurled it at her.

  Sena stood straight in defiance, daring me to hit her again. “Game on!” we screamed at the same time.

  We battled, laughing so hard we were weak from struggle. After a good twenty rounds, I quit. With soggy woolen mittens and frozen fingers, I surrendered.

  Sena and I climbed up the less crowded side of the hill, hopped on our sleds, and sped down, screaming as if wolves were chasing us. This uphill/downhill play continued until we could no longer feel our fingers or toes.

  I made it back home in time to see Jackie shoveling his front steps. I stopped to chat.

  “Hey, Steve. Where’ve you been?”

  “Sledding,” I told him.

  “At the 47th Street park?”

  “No. My friend Sena and I went to an area with lots of hills. The place was packed with kids,” I explained. “We had so much fun!”

  “I’ve never gone sledding,” Jackie mused. “It must be fun. I’ll put that on my list for Jackie and me to do when he’s older.”

  “Sure is cold today,” I said, shivering.

  “In Southern California, where I grew up, it didn’t get this cold.”

  “Really,” I responded in surprise. “What happens in winter, then?”

  Jackie chuckled. “Guess California doesn’t have much of a winter. Not like the East Coast, anyway. It’s mostly warm year-round. If the temperature drops down to the 50s or 60s, we wear a light jacket. About this time of year, I’d be on the golf course, not shoveling snow. But since I plan to play baseball for the Brooklyn Dodgers a long time, I better get used to this cold weather.”

  Jackie finished clearing the last two steps. “Want to come in and have some hot chocolate?”

  “I better get home now,” I told him.

  “Do you have family coming over this weekend?”

  “A bunch.”

  “That’ll be nice. We don’t have much family here. Maybe you can come by on Thursday. We’ll be decorating for the holiday and it’ll be more fun for Jackie if you’re there. Would you like that?”

  “Would I!”

  “Great, but get your parents’ permission. Come over around one. We’ll send you back home by three.”

  On Thursday, I carried my L-17 model plane with me to the Robinsons’.

  Rachel opened the door and wrapped her arms around me. “Come on in quickly and warm up. Jack and Jackie Junior are in the living room, decorating our tree.”

  “I made this plane,” I said, holding it up so Rachel could get a good view.

  “Wow!” she said. “That is incredible. Is it a replica of a plane used during World War Two?”

  “Sure is,” I replied. “How’d you know?”

  “Oh, I worked on war planes as a riveter.”

  “What’s a riveter?” I asked.

  “It was a name given to women who worked in American factories during World War Two,” Rachel explained. “A rivet is a metal pin. They were hammered into the war planes to hold pieces of the plane together. It was my job to stand inside the plane while the metal bolts were hammered from the outside through holes on the inside. I’d yell to the person outside the plane to let them know that the bolt was coming through the hole. The war was far away, and women couldn’t fight. We wanted to help out and it sure felt good when we did.”

  “That is so cool,” I said.

  “How’s your mother, Steve?”

  “She’s getting ready for our big family dinner Sunday,” I replied.

  “I’ll bet she is,” Rachel said. “Go on into the living room and see if you can help my husband. Between the lights and little Jackie, he’s got his hands full. I’m headed into the kitchen to make a snack. Are you hungry?”

  “Not really,” I replied.

  “How about some
hot chocolate?”

  “Yes, please!”

  When I walked into the living room, my mouth dropped open. Jackie was standing on a ladder next to a giant tree. I’d never ever seen a tree inside anyone’s house.

  “Evie!” Jackie Junior screamed when he saw me. I lifted my little friend into the air, swung him around, and set him back on the floor. He was just beginning to say words we could understand.

  “Hi, Jackie,” I called up.

  “Glad you made it, Steve!”

  I moved in closer to the evergreen tree. It smelled like the woods and nearly touched the ceiling. Jackie was stringing colored lights through its branches. He looked down and smiled. “You’re just in time to help me string these lights around the tree.”

  I looked up and down the huge tree. “I can’t reach that high,” I squeaked out.

  Jackie chuckled. “Me either. That’s why I have this ladder. You can still help. I’ll wrap the lights around the top. You can string them around the bottom.”

  “Got it,” I said, happy to have a part in making the tree sparkle.

  Together we wound the lights from top to bottom. Then we settled around the coffee table to drink hot chocolate and admire the tree.

  “It’s so big and pretty!” I marveled.

  “Had to get the biggest one on the lot, right, son?” Jackie said proudly. “Is your tree up yet, Steve?”

  “Oh, we don’t have one.”

  “Steve,” Rachel said, “I have a special project for you and little Jackie that involves colored paper, scissors, and paste. Are you two ready to make something pretty to put on the tree?”

  Jackie Junior and I clapped our hands and raced to the kitchen while Jackie carefully placed colorful bulbs on the branches of the tree. An hour later, we were laughing and stringing a paper wreath around the tree. When the tree was decorated, Rachel plugged in the lights, and Jackie Junior and I screamed with joy. It was the most beautiful tree I’d ever seen.