Читать книгу Newark Minutemen - Leslie K. Barry - Страница 12

It’s dark, but the light seeps through my closed eyes.

“Farshiltn!” my mother swears.

One eye peeks at Mama across the room. She picks up a worn leather bag in the kitchen near the scratched enamel gas stove. She zips the bag closed and tip-toes toward me.

My small bed creaks when she sits down. She runs her fingers through my hair. “Good morning my ‘golden kherd farshlofn kop,” she says the ending in Yiddish. Translated, that means blond-haired sleepy head. I stir under the scratchy blanket but pretend I’m not really awake. My Ma, Esther, whispers, “Your katzisher-kop of a father forgot this.”

I open my eyes.

She holds up the leather bag.

I can’t help myself. I giggle.

She puts her finger to her mouth to shush me so I won’t wake my two older brothers. Our beds are close, packed into the converted living room we share as our bedroom in the third story apartment above the candy shop. Ma and Pop sleep in the only bedroom. Ma used to curse at us in Yiddish when we jumped on her bed, tellin’ us to never forget we were born in there and to not knock the portrait of our Russian grandfather off the wall. Then we’d make her laugh. But she’s not laughing now. “I need you to take this to Papa at the docks,” she whispers. “He’s working for Mr. Zwillman. It’s his food and clothes.” She sets it next to the bed.

“How many days will he be gone this time?” I ask.

Mama holds up five fingers and plants a kiss on my head. My brothers would never let her do that, but I’m gonna let her until I turn thirteen in a few months. “Dress warmly,” she says. She plonks Pop’s worn boots and socks next to the bed and hands me some change. “Geyn, geyn,” she says. “Take the trolley so you won’t be late for school.” She returns to the kitchen and her chores.

I swing my legs off the bed and press the change into the pocket of the pants I wore to bed. My feet scuffle against the cold floor until I pull on the scratchy socks and slide into the oversized boots. Our drafty apartment warns me about the unfriendly morning I must face, so I sneak my brother Dov’s sweater off his bed. I tug it over my head and come face to face with boxer Benny Leonard. Not the real life Benny Leonard. But the photo of my icon on the cover of Muscle Builder magazine that’s taped on the wall above my bed. My father says Leonard is a more important Jew than Albert Einstein since more people know who he is. Pop’s promised to take me to a match. I’m gonna be a boxer just like Leonard. He attacks like a machine gun. Perfect aim. Rapid fire. And he believes he’s gonna win. I slip on a coat and gloves and grab the leather bag. As I open the door, Mama pulls down a wool newsboy cap over my ears and pushes a cream cheese sandwich into my empty hand.