Yossi's Goal (7 page)

Slowly Papa got better. With Yossi's money, Mama had bought a chicken for soup and herbs for tea and even a precious lemon and some honey, and she fed Papa bowlfuls and cupfuls until he protested he was going to float away. Soon he began to eat a little more, sleep a little less. He started sitting up in bed, then sitting in a chair, then walking around the flat. At first, when he tried going up and down the stairs, he leaned on the banister and hacked. Mama said he wasn't ready to go back to work.

But soon he was able to climb the stairs with only a slight wheeze.

“See?” he said.

“Not yet,” Mama said.

He began following her around the flat, poking into her cooking, her cleaning, her sewing.

“Go, already!” Mama said.

So he went back to work.

Daniel and Miriam continued their whispered conversations, their secret meetings. They tried to hide their activities from Papa, but Yossi was sure that Papa knew what was going on. Pretending to brush the snow from his boots, Papa lingered by the door when they were whispering on the other side. One time, when they were out, Yossi saw him take a handbill from under Miriam's mattress. Yossi expected him to crumple it in disgust, but instead he looked at it thoughtfully.

That was interesting, Yossi thought. He realized that ever since Papa had gotten over his pneumonia, he didn't have such a disapproving look on his face anymore. He'd stopped arguing with Miriam and
Daniel. And once, after they'd gone out yet again, Papa said to Mama, “Those two hotheads.” Yossi could have sworn there was a touch of pride in his voice.

Maybe, Yossi thought, Papa was beginning to change his mind.

It grew colder. At the street corners, snow was piled up to Yossi's waist. In the mornings, when he stood on his corner selling
Die Zeit
, the wind seemed to blow right through his old coat. More than once, Yossi thought longingly of Max Steiner's almost-new coat. It was still in the trunk at the foot of Mama and Papa's bed; they hadn't given it away. Still hoping he'd change his mind, no doubt. Standing on the corner, shivering, Yossi thought of the gloating look on Max's face when he'd taunted him. Yossi pulled his old coat tighter. He'd never wear Steiner's coat. Never!

Yossi stopped by the ice rink every chance he got. On his way from selling his newspapers to Steiner's. On his way from
Steiner's to deliver the bundles. On his way home from lessons.

He stood at the end of the ice and watched. He studied the boys' moves. He learned the game. He saw how René passed the lump of coal, not to where Jean-Paul was right then, but to where Jean-Paul would be in three strides. He saw how Jacques pretended to shoot the lump, making Michel move his stick, and then, once Michel was out of the way, buried the lump in the snowbank.

Yossi learned that the game of hockey was not really played with a lump of coal, but with a flat rubber disc called
une rondelle de hockey
. And that you didn't really shoot the
rondelle
into a snowbank, but into an upright net called
un filet
. And that there were five players for each team on the ice at a time, plus a goaltender— Michel's position—at either end.

Yossi longed for the day when he had his skates and could play with René and the other boys. But now, after having given Mama and Papa his pennies, he was
starting to save all over again—and his skates seemed further away than ever.

Yossi learned a few French words. Then a few more. He taught the French boys some Yiddish words. They all began to speak a mixture of French and Yiddish, with grunts and facial expressions and pantomime thrown in when words failed.

With this mixed language, Yossi learned that most of the boys' fathers, and many of their older brothers too, worked all winter cutting down trees in the woods, far from home. It was dangerous work, the boys told him. Some of their fathers were missing fingers.

“My papa's leg got crushed,” Jean-Paul said. He limped several steps to show Yossi. “That's why he works at Steiner's.” He frowned. “But that miser pays so little, our family is in a bad way.”

Yossi put his hand on Jean-Paul's shoulder. “Our family too.”

All the French boys were friendly to
Yossi—all except Hugo. He never greeted Yossi, never smiled at him. When the other boys practiced their Yiddish, Hugo didn't join in. When the boys skated over to the side of the rink to say hello to Yossi, Hugo stayed put.

One day, Yossi brought Abie, Benny, Louie and Milton to meet the French boys and see the glorious game he'd been telling them about. The two groups crowded together, pointing and gesturing as they exchanged names.

All but Hugo. He kept himself apart, glancing darkly at Yossi's pals. Yossi heard him say something under his breath about “
les Juifs
.”

Yossi knew those words: The Jews. He turned to Hugo, hands on hips. “What about
les Juifs
?” he demanded.

Hugo swept out his arm, as if to take in all the Jewish boys. “The priest says you killed Our Lord Jesus Christ!”

“Killed Christ—us Jews?” Yossi said, not sure he understood.

Hugo nodded.

“That's a lie!”

Hugo's face turned red but he pressed on. “And they say that you Jews kill Christian children to get blood for your rituals.”

Yossi couldn't follow that French. “What? What's he saying?”

Together, René and Jean-Paul acted out a gruesome drama of slit throats, cupped hands, gurgling and frenzied prayers.

Yossi's jaw dropped. “That's crazy!”

“Disgusting!” Milton added.

“Besides,” Louie put in, “it wouldn't be kosher!”

Hugo looked sheepish. “Well, that's what they say,” he mumbled.

René stepped in front of him. “Listen, Hugo, these fellows are all right. They're not the bad ones. Maybe those other ones”—he pointed toward Steiner's—”but not these ones. You got that?”

There was a moment of silence. “Yeah,” Hugo said. He glanced at the Jewish boys, and while he wasn't smiling, Yossi saw that he looked a little less hostile.

Yossi tried to think of a way to show that he and his pals had no hard feelings. He whispered to his friends and they nodded eagerly. Leading the French boys to Moishe's pushcart, the Jewish boys pooled their pennies and treated their new friends to pickled herring.

Then the French boys made dessert— by stirring maple syrup into snow!
La crème glacée à l'érable
, they called it, but when it was Yossi's turn to take a bite, he looked at the mixture doubtfully. Whoever heard of eating tree sap mixed into snow? Hesitantly, he put a spoonful in his mouth. Cold! Sweet! Icy! Syrupy! “
Dé-dé-délicieuse!
” he said in his new-found French.

All the boys laughed.

“Now what?” René said.

“Well,” Yossi said, “we can't skate. So let's play at something we can all do. How about”—he quickly packed a snowball and lobbed it at René—”a snowball fight?”

“
La guerre!
” René shouted, and the air
was soon full of flying snowballs, all the boys running and falling, sliding and laughing, hitting and getting hit.

Even Hugo.

One day, approaching the ice rink with a bundle on his back, Yossi heard yells and howls. He stopped short. There was a crowd of boys on the ice, pushing and poking, kicking and punching, slugging and swinging and shoving.

Yossi ran closer. Where were his friends? There! He made out René…Jacques… Hugo… They were surrounded by nine or ten bigger, stronger boys—and they were getting beaten up!

Yossi dropped his bundle and ran onto the ice. A tall muscular boy had his fist upraised, about to punch Jean-Paul. Yossi grabbed the boy's arm and spun
him around. Surprised, the boy lost his balance and fell.

“
Merci!
” Jean-Paul yelled.

“What's going on?” Yossi said.

“
Ils nous ont volé notre glace!
” Jean-Paul said, then went flying as the big boy, back on his feet, hit him with his shoulder.

“Stole your ice!” Yossi repeated. “Oof!” He landed on his bottom, hard, as the same boy gave him a mighty shove.

“Take that, you!” the big boy said in Yiddish.

Yiddish! These boys were Jewish? Yossi scrambled to his feet—and recognized Max Steiner's cronies who'd laughed at him that day outside the synagogue.

Yossi started searching for Max in the crush of bodies, sure that the boss's son was behind this. Yes! There he was, in his once-again-spotless black coat. Sliding across the ice, windmilling his arms, Yossi threw himself against Max.

“You rat!” he yelled in Yiddish. “What do you think you're doing?”

Max whirled around on his skates. There
was a moment of astonishment. Then he leered. “You!” He pushed Yossi down.

Yossi sprang back up. “Thief! You can't take their ice!” He swung at Max.

Max laughed, skating out of the way. “Oh, yeah? We just did. It's ours now.”

“Well, you're going to have to get past me!” Yossi shouted as he charged. But Max darted aside, and with a few swift steps he plowed into Yossi, knocking him down again.

Yossi climbed to his feet and kept fighting. But even though he swung wildly, he took a flurry of punches and knew that he was getting the worst of it. What's more, he knew that his friends were too. In a quick scan of the ice, Yossi saw Jacques get socked in the stomach, while René, his nose bleeding and his cheek scratched, sprawled face-down as a boy the size of a man pushed him from behind.

Amid the yelling and grunting, Yossi heard a shrill whistle that he recognized as René's. “
On s'en va, les gars!
”

Yossi joined the French boys at the edge of the ice, expecting René to rally the boys to drive the intruders away. But instead René picked up his skates and stick. “
Allons-y, les gars. On s'en va
.”

“What do you mean, let's go?” Yossi said, grabbing his sleeve. “Aren't you going to chase them away? This is your ice!”

“What do you think we've been trying to do?” René said angrily. “You saw how it was. They're too much for us.”

“But you can't just let them—”

“We can't beat them. There's too many and they're too big and strong.”

“Then I'll get my pals!” Yossi cried. But even as he said it, he knew it was no use. Even with Abie and Benny and Louie and Milton, they wouldn't be able to fight off these older stronger boys.

Fuming, Yossi stood there with the others and watched as Max and his friends skated triumphantly around the rink, hooting and crowing, slapping each other on the back.

René and the others started walking
away, but Yossi waited for Max to skate by. “You're nothing but a dirty rotten
gonef
, Steiner.”

Max's face darkened. “Who are you calling a thief, you stinking
griner
? You peasant!” He drew closer. “I know it was you who threw the eggs, and I know your Frenchie pals hid you that day. You think you're so smart. Well, how smart do you feel right now, huh?”

“Smart enough to get you back for this!”

“Oh, yeah? You, the big strong
shlepper
of bundles?” With a laugh, Max skated away.

Yossi grabbed his bundle and caught up with René and the boys. “Now what?”

“Now we find another spot,” René answered, “and build a rink from scratch.”

The boys wandered up one street and down another, searching for a good spot. One alley with a promising dip in the middle had too much horse and wagon traffic. There was a ditch in an out-of-the-way
lane, but it was too narrow. Finally they came to an alley behind a row of little-used shops. There was a mound of lumber scraps and garbage in the middle, and the alley was narrower at one end than the other. But it sloped down at the center, and it was so pocked with potholes that it didn't look as if anyone traveled that way. At the corner was a hand pump with a long metal arm.

René grunted. “Here. Tomorrow morning. Bring pails and shovels and wheelbarrows, boys.”

The next day, Yossi showed up with Abie, Benny, Louie and Milton. Together, the boys carted away armfuls and barrow-loads of scraps, garbage, rocks and debris. They filled buckets of water at the pump and emptied them into the trench. Slowly the water level rose.

At first they grumbled as they worked. “
Sales Anglais
…Rotten thieves…” Then the French boys began to sing. “
Alouette, gentille alouette
…” in rhythm with the passing of the buckets. They taught the Jewish boys their song, and the Jewish boys taught them “My Rumania, My Rumania.” Neither group understood the words of the other's song, but they parrotted the sounds and laughed at one another's mistakes.