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Authors: Ellen Schwartz

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Yossi grinned. “Ammunition, boys.”

Yossi had them take off their caps and, very gingerly, fill them with eggs. They walked to the edge of the school
grounds, lay down behind a snowbank and waited.

When the bell tolled four, the front doors opened and boys started spilling out. Boys in smart winter coats and warm caps. Boys wearing leather boots. Well-fed boys with chubby rosy cheeks.

“Now, remember,” Yossi whispered to the others, “Max Steiner is mine.”

After a while, Yossi heard a familiar voice. He peered over the snowbank. Sure enough, it was Max and his cronies.

“You should see my new ice skates,” Max was saying. “Papa says they're the most expensive skates in Montreal. They go like lightning!”

“I have new skates too,” one of the other boys said.

“Not as good as mine,” Max snapped. “Mine are the best you can buy.”

Yossi raised a finger. “Now,” he whispered.

The boys let fly.
Pow
!
Bam
!
Splat
! The eggs went sailing. Some smashed on the ground. Some spattered on arms or backs. A rotten stench hung in the air like a cloud.

“Wha'—?”

“Yuch!”

“Phew! It stinks!”

The startled boys ran every which way.

Yossi took careful aim. His egg landed right in the middle of Max's chest. Orange yolk and slimy white started oozing down the front of his new coat.

Keeping hidden, Yossi peeked over the snowbank. Max was jumping up and down, flailing his arms, wriggling in disgust. “Ugh! Phew! Aagghh! Get it off me!”

Yossi laughed to himself. How he longed to taunt Max Steiner as Max had taunted him! But he didn't dare, in case Max found out who it was and Papa got in trouble.

Quickly, before Max and the other boys could climb over the snowbank to see who their attackers were, Yossi gave a signal. He and his friends ran away, disappearing around the corner so quickly, it was as if they had never been there at all.

Chapter Six

Papa's cough got worse. At first he coughed only when he exerted himself, like when he climbed the stairs or walked in the cold. Then he coughed whenever he spoke. Soon he was coughing all the time.

The cough changed from a wet rattle to a dry wracking cough that shook his body. All night Yossi lay stiff and tense on his mattress, listening to Papa's violent hacking, and in the morning he was nearly as tired as Papa was.

“Send for the doctor, Avram,” Mama said.

Papa shook his head. “We can't afford it. It'll pass.” He coughed again.

Then Papa began to run a fever. His eyes were glazed. He had no energy, no appetite. He dragged himself to work. He dragged himself back.

One day he couldn't get out of bed. He raised his head, gave a shuddering cough, and fell back. Mama motioned to Yossi. “Go for Dr. Rosenthal.”

“We can't afford it,” Papa rasped.

“We'll afford it!” she scolded. “I can't afford to lose you!”

Yossi ran.

Dr. Rosenthal listened to Papa's chest. He took his pulse, felt his neck and looked down his throat. “Pneumonia,” he pronounced. He looked at Papa. “You're a garment worker, right?”

Papa looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“I see it all the time. Starts as an irritation from the dust and stale air, then grows into an infection.” Dr. Rosenthal shook his head. “Those sweatshops are breeding grounds for illness.”

Papa flapped his hand as if dismissing
Dr. Rosenthal's words, but Yossi remembered what Miriam had said about Mr. Steiner refusing to put in fans. And now Papa had gotten sick from working at the sweatshop!

Dr. Rosenthal turned to Mama. “Plenty of liquids—tea, chicken broth, juice if you can get it. Sponge baths for the fever. And—,” he turned to Papa with a stern look, “—complete bed rest. No work until the fever and cough are completely gone.”

“How long?” Papa whispered.

“However long it takes,” Dr. Rosenthal said as he left.

The next morning, Papa was up at the usual hour.

“What do you think you're doing?” Mama cried.

“Going to work.”

“The doctor said bed rest!”

“We can't afford for me to miss work.” He coughed, his shoulders shaking. “I'll be all right.”

“Get back in bed this minute!”

Papa ignored her and headed down the stairs.

An hour later, Yossi was at Steiner's delivering a bundle of finished garments. There was a commotion on the other side of the packing room door, and a man bustled through. “Worker collapsed out there. The boss ain't happy.”

Yossi ran through the door before the supervisor could stop him. Papa lay on the floor beside his sewing machine. Daniel was cradling his head. Yossi helped Daniel sit Papa up. He was trembling and his skin was burning hot. They helped Papa to his feet. As they walked him out of the sweatshop, one of Papa's arms draped over Daniel's shoulders and the other over Yossi's, Mr. Steiner was bellowing at the workers, who'd stopped their machines to watch, “What are you staring at? Get back to work!”

Yossi and Daniel half-carried Papa home and laid him in his bed. Now, Yossi thought, Papa had no choice but to follow Dr. Rosenthal's instructions.

Over the next several days, Yossi carried extra bundles to earn a few more pennies. Every chance he got, coming or going from Steiner's, he went by the ice rink where the French boys were playing hockey.

They continued to ignore him. Well, not exactly ignore. They looked at him— curiously, Yossi thought. But they didn't call hello or invite him to join them.

Yossi didn't know whether it was because he didn't speak French, or because he was Jewish—everyone knew that most of the boys who carried bundles were Jews— or because, since they had skates, they thought they were better than he was.

He didn't care. He'd paid back Moishe, the herring vendor, and still his stash of pennies was growing. With all the extra bundles he was carrying, the sock under his mattress was positively bulging. Any day now, he'd have enough to buy a pair of skates. He'd make friends with the French boys somehow. And then he'd learn to play the glorious game of hockey.

Meanwhile, Papa was still sick. Even a few days after he'd collapsed, he was still running a fever, alternately shivering and sweating. He slept fitfully, thrashing in his sleep, and when he was awake, he coughed constantly.

Mama walked around with a deep crease in her forehead. She was in and out of the bedroom all day, feeling Papa's forehead, wiping him down with cool cloths, trying to get him to drink water, tea, soup. When she wasn't fussing over him, she was sewing. She and Miriam and Sadie were all working from early in the morning until late at night, trying to make up for Papa's lost wages.

After several days, Papa was able to sit up and take a little soup, but he was still coughing constantly and the fever came and went. The next day his fever was lower, but he was still too weak to get out of bed. A couple of days later, the fever broke. Color started coming back into his face.

The sharp line in Mama's forehead faded and she went back to scolding. “If you'd
sent for the doctor when I told you to! But no, he has to be the hero. ‘It'll pass,' he says. Fah!” All this, while feeding Papa and wiping his chin.

Yossi breathed a sigh of relief.

A couple of days later, Yossi came home with four pennies jingling in his pocket. He'd carried four bundles that day. It was time to count his money. He must have enough by now!

He opened the door to the sound of yelling. Mama had her coat and scarf on and her cloth market bag over her arm, turnip greens poking out the top. Papa also had his coat on—over his pajamas. The coal scuttle was on the floor, overturned, coal spilling in a dusty black flood. Papa was leaning over, hands on his knees, coughing.

“Two minutes I go out to do some marketing and you sneak out of bed!” Mama scolded.

“Didn't…sneak…,” Papa said, between rasping coughs.

“What were you thinking?” Mama shrilled, putting down her bag.

“…wanted to bring up some coal…,” Papa rasped. “…Daniel and Yossi doing all the work…”

“Papa!” Yossi said. “I don't mind. You shouldn't—”

“Listen to your son. He's smarter than you!” Mama snapped. “Up and down the stairs in the cold…not even out of your sickbed yet…” As she hollered, she took off Papa's coat, put his old sweater around his shoulders and led him into the bedroom.

“I feel useless,” Papa grumbled.

“Useless! I'll give you useless. You'll be useless if you work yourself into an early grave!” Mama felt his forehead. “
Oy vey
, he's burning up. Quick, Yossi, some cool wet cloths.”

While Mama rubbed him down, Yossi cleaned up the spilled coal and filled the scuttle again. Mama came out of the bedroom. The furrow was back in her forehead.

That night, as he was getting ready for bed, Yossi felt the four pennies in his pocket. He'd forgotten all about them. He reached for his sock, but then stopped. He gazed at Papa, who was sleeping. His cheeks were hollow beneath his gaunt cheekbones. Yossi could hear the wheeze in his chest as he struggled to breathe.

Yossi tiptoed from the room. Mama was in the kitchen, hand-sewing a lacy collar on a lady's blouse, squinting in the candlelight. Yossi sat beside her.

“Papa's not going to be able to go back to work for a while, is he, Mama?”

She looked at him. “No, Yossi. Why?”

“No reason. Just wondering.”

Later, Yossi lay in bed, waiting for Mama to fall asleep. When he heard her slow breathing, he reached under his mattress, pulled out his sock and tiptoed into the kitchen. Quietly, he counted his savings into the cup on the mantel. One dollar and seventy-six cents.

Not quietly enough. Mama tiptoed over just as he was putting in the last penny.

“Yossi, what are you doing?” she whispered. She looked in the cup. “Your money! I can't take it.”

“It's all right, Mama. You need it more than I do.”

“But Yossi—”

“Take it, Mama.”

She looked at him with shining eyes. Then she threw her arms around him. “Oh, Yossi! Thank you.”

Yossi hugged her back. He didn't mind, really he didn't. He was proud to help.

But oh, his skates!

Chapter Seven

Daniel was busy. Careful not to let Papa see, he scribbled on scraps of paper, then burned them. Sometimes, Yossi noticed, he arrived home late, famished and exhausted, his eyes burning with some inner fire. Other times, he came home, wolfed down his dinner, then hurried out again.

Once, Yossi saw Daniel standing in a tenement doorway talking to Solly, the friendly fellow who bundled up the garment pieces.

Another time, Yossi saw Daniel come out of a building followed by Jonah Fishkin. Jonah was leaning close to Daniel. His face had a crafty expression, though
his pale eyes blinked innocently. Yossi remembered what Abie had said about Jonah hanging around the supervisors. So what was he doing with Daniel? Did that mean Jonah was involved with the workers too? That was odd. He'd have to ask Daniel, Yossi thought.

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