by Adrien Leduc
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 a
ll 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
