Two days hence, just before the beginning of Chanukah, the holy Rebbe of Zubinsk was to marry off his final granddaughter, the youngest of five. It was going to be a massive celebration, and for weeks the rumors had been building: so many wagons full of fine food had arrived, and twice as many musicians; the bride’s dress had been made specially for her in Kiev; the groom’s family was bringing a famous wedding jester all the way from Vilna.
And best of all: the invitation was entirely open. Everyone was welcome, without exception.
Needless to say, this was a tempting prospect, no less to those interested in the holy Rebbe than to those interested in the promise of a good party, and it was in the midst of describing the torrent of arriving visitors that Yankl stopped short.
“Oh!” he said. “And you’ll never guess who I saw at the tavern: Avimelekh. Avimelekh! Can you believe it? I wouldn’t have thought—”
But what Yankl wouldn’t have thought went unsaid; at precisely this moment, the rabbi spoke up.
“Yankl,” he said, his soft voice cutting through the chatter like a knife.
All heads turned to where the rabbi stood in the door.
“What?” said Yankl.
The rabbi gave his head a sharp little shake as if to say, Don’t, and then gestured to the place where Yehuda Leib was sitting.
Now the eyes of the crowd turned toward him.
Yehuda Leib’s cheeks began to burn.
They were all looking at him.
Why were they looking at him?
“What?” said Yehuda Leib, and when no answer came, he repeated himself: “What?”
It was in this moment that Moshe Dovid Frumkin, the stern and pious town butcher, came forward and, mercifully, broke the silence.
“Yankl,” he said. “Yankl, did you get my new hat?”
“Ah!” said Yankl. “Yes!” Yankl stepped back inside, produced his hefty pack, and set to untying the large, round box secured to its bulk. This turned out to contain the hat in question: a rich fur crown of a shtreimel, glossy and fine, for special occasions.
Now the knot of schmoozers split, some gathering in close to admire the shtreimel, some splintering into their own conversations or drifting off into the day.
But Yehuda Leib was frozen where he sat. His heart was pounding. He did not care to be stared at—he who was so often blamed for broken or missing things, who was no sooner seen than suspected.
Why had they all stared at him?
What did they all know that he didn’t?
The morning was not shaping up well.
And this is why—even more than was normally the case—Yehuda Leib found himself growing angrier and angrier at Issur Frumkin.
Issur was the son of Moshe Dovid the butcher and he was the only other boy in Tupik of Yehuda Leib’s age. This inevitably invited comparison, and not to Yehuda Leib’s advantage: Yehuda Leib was scrappy and small; Issur was tall and broad. Yehuda Leib was dirty, poor, always in trouble; Issur was none of these things. Because his father was prosperous, Issur’s hours were rarely occupied with work, and he was free to sit in the study hall reading holy texts; Yehuda Leib had to occupy his hours finding food to eat.
But what made Yehuda Leib jealous was neither the comfort nor the esteem belonging to Issur Frumkin. It was something altogether simpler:
Issur had a father and he didn’t.
And, to make matters worse, Issur had two very different faces. The first, which he always wore in his father’s presence, was deferential, humble—the picture of Reb Frumkin’s expectation. The second, which he had a habit of turning on Yehuda Leib when others—particularly parents—were not around, was bratty, sneering, and superior.
And there he was now, standing in the synagogue door, doting cloyingly on his father, trying on his new hat. It was far too big on him, of course, and it slipped around and made him look even more foolish than he did in the first place.
But still, Issur’s father smiled and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder as if there were nothing his son could do wrong.
No one ever touched Yehuda Leib like that.
Now Issur was asking to keep the hat with him at the study hall, and his father answered with the fond admonition that it was new and expensive, and he must be very careful.
The little fire in Yehuda Leib’s chest was picking up heat.
By the time Yehuda Leib looked back up, nearly everyone was gone—Moshe Dovid off to his butchery, the rabbi off to his breakfast. But Issur was crossing the road toward Yehuda Leib now, his feet kneading through the well-turned mud.
It was not kind—and it was probably not wise, either—but Yehuda Leib was in no mood to give Issur Frumkin a free pass. Rooting in his pocket for something to eat, he shifted his body into the doorframe to block Issur’s way.
“Hey,” said Issur, mounting the front stairs. “Move.”
Yehuda Leib did not react, keeping his eyes low beneath the brim of his cap, chewing assiduously on a hard rind of cheese.
“Hey! Yehuda Leib!” said Issur. “I know you can hear me. Move, you idiot.”
At this, Yehuda Leib sighed and scooted himself over, but rather than clearing the doorframe, he moved farther in, taking up as much space as he possibly could.
“Oh,” said Issur. “Think you’re funny?”
Now Yehuda Leib looked up and smiled through a mouthful of cheese.
“You’re disgusting,” said Issur. “Get out of my way.”
Again, Yehuda Leib did not budge.
“Some of us have important things to do,” said Issur. “Why don’t you stand up and move, you little bastard?”
It is entirely possible that Issur was not aware that, coming from him of all people—on this morning of all mornings—that word would scorch Yehuda Leib’s guts with its injustice. It is, in fact, likely that Issur Frumkin had no idea what he was getting himself into.
But none of this made the slightest bit of difference to Yehuda Leib.
Calmly, he stood. Tossing aside the stripped rind of cheese, he stepped out of the doorframe, and as he passed Issur by, he swatted at the brim of Moshe Dovid’s fine new hat, sending it flying up and out into the street, where he trod on it hard, crushing it deep into the mud.
Issur stood quivering on the study-hall stairs above.
Yehuda Leib turned and smiled.
“There,” he said. “How’s that?”
And this is how the fight began.
* * *