*Originally published in ASU’s Canyon Voices magazine, Spring 2016 Issue

(https://cloud.3dissue.com/75238/75586/89748/CanyonVoicesIssue13/index.html)*

 

All the Jewish boys in Montreal went to the Protestant school. The Catholic schools were also available, but Jews in Montreal never sent their children there … unless they were Orthodox. The Orthodox Jews were so strict that they wouldn’t light a fire in their fireplace on Shabbat because that was considered “work.” Instead, they would beg a Gentile bystander to do it for them. My brothers and I would sometimes pretend to be Gentiles just to see inside the Orthodox Jews’ household, and see the men’s tallits and the women’s tichel scarves up close. Our parents never wore anything of the sort, except at bar mitzvahs. After lighting their fire, we’d giggle all the way home.

My mother Rose, my father Edward, my two brothers and I, our aunt and uncle, and our two cousins lived together in a fifth floor apartment near the Saint Lawrence River. We had moved from New York a year ago, when the Depression forced us out of the city.

Grandpa Sandor also lived with us, and he always wanted a good Hungarian meal when he came home with my father for dinner. The meat, the soup, the vegetables, the fruit, the dessert, and the coffee were laboriously prepared by my mother for hours each day. Cloth tablecloths and napkins were used at every meal, and Mother always set out the best china dishes and silver cutlery. I walked in from school on a crisp fall afternoon, shivering in the Montreal wind. “I’m home,” I told Mother as I entered the sparsely decorated kitchen. The smell of her fresh-baked bread filled me like honey, and the kitchen and living room hugged me with their cozy arms.

The Depression had started with the United States, but here in Canada it was felt as well. However, I didn’t think anything of it—I always had enough food, a place to sleep (right now it was on a cot in the living room), and my friends at school. My father owned an artificial flower business, so we were better off than most of my friends. And Mother’s cooking helped all woes go away. I pitied my friends who didn’t have a Jewish mother.

My little brother Levi and I helped my mother set the table, carefully putting out the silver plates and bowls, straightening the tablecloth, placing the butter in its dish at the center. Mother had just heard about new paper napkins that were beginning to be manufactured all over the world. She had decided to buy some to save her time on laundry, and had me set the table with them in place of the cloth napkins. “Fold them carefully, David,” she said to me, her smiling lips under her soft brown eyes sending me love. “I want Grandpa to be pleased.”

Grandpa Sandor was very concerned about things being proper, “like they were in the good old days, in the Old Country.” He was the one who had helped me learn to fight in New York, so that I was able to hold my own even against bigger kids.

Grandpa and my father came home to the smell of a chicken being roasted to perfection. My uncle followed soon after. Within a half hour, the eleven of us were gathered around the table for our nightly feast. My mother and I watched Grandpa’s reaction to the napkins. He looked at them but didn’t say anything.

The first course, steamed vegetables, was served, and my father and uncle began their nightly talk of politics, both in the U.S. and Canada. The women and children weren’t supposed to talk, but tonight Grandpa’s normally robust discussion with his sons was absent. He was completely silent. My mother, who knew quite a bit about Franklin Roosevelt, offered her thoughts during a lull in the discussion. “I think Mr. Roosevelt would be a great president. Have you seen how he’s helped New York as a senator?”

“Maybe,” my father replied. “But it’s going to take some real character to move the U.S. out of its rut.” And then he turned to my uncle and continued talking.

Grandpa Sandor, however, glared at Mother for the next ten minutes, his hairy nostrils flaring over his black mustache, while we ate our chicken and potatoes with butter and gravy. The potatoes had paprika—everything from Hungary had paprika and Grandpa wouldn’t have his food any other way. The soup was served, and Grandpa continued to glare at Mother. I was feeling uncomfortable, but I knew that I could run off to play baseball with my brothers and cousins as soon as the coffee was served and finished.

The fruit was served, and then an apple tart, and Grandpa still hadn’t touched his napkin or said a word to his sons. Mother served the coffee, with cream and sugar, and the adults drank while we all relaxed in our chairs and digested. When the meal was over, Grandpa still hadn’t said anything—about the food, about politics, about the business. The adults put down their coffee mugs and sat back with a sigh. Grandpa stood up, grunted at my mother, and picked up the side of her beautiful white tablecloth, which had been part of her dowry.

Looking fixedly at my mother, who was turning pale, he slowly wiped his mouth on the side of the tablecloth. A mottled smear of coffee and soup and oil and jelly spread across the white linen. “Hmph!” he said. Then he picked up the paper napkin with his fingers like it was rotten, and dropped it in the pot of leftover soup. “Hmph!” he said again. My father was starting to turn red, and Grandpa turned to him. “Teach your wife some respect!” he growled, then stomped out of the room.

Mother burst into tears. “I didn’t know he wouldn’t like the paper napkins!” she sobbed. I felt terrible. Mother had spent so long on dinner and making the napkins and everything else look good.

My father held her shoulders and frowned. “He’s very traditional. I don’t think he wants women talking at the table, either.”

My uncle smirked. “We’ll have to do better next time, then. Go outside and play, boys.”

I silently vowed I’d never treat my mother like Grandpa had. We ran outside, glad to escape the tense atmosphere.

The early May sun was still shining its light on our street. The boys all along our street, Rue Notre Dame East, had gathered in front of our neighbor’s red-bricked apartment. But it wasn’t for baseball, as we had thought. They were organizing a fight.

Fights always had a referee and rules. You couldn’t hit below the waist, and you couldn’t use sharp objects to defeat your opponent (knock his eyes out, etc.). But the kids in Montreal only knew how to fight with their hands. They were dummies.

I had lived in New York for the first eight years of my life. New York fighting was bloody and tough. You had to use both your hands and your feet to win. No parts of the body were off-limits. When I was six, I showed Grandpa Sandor how I fought. He was impressed so he taught me some “man” moves to better defeat my opponents.

I was extremely short for my age. I’m still short for my age. But I was fast. Faster than a hockey puck whizzing from my stick across the ice. In New York, being short and fast saved my life. In Canada, it earned me respect.

The oldest kid on our block, a fifteen-year-old named Jacob, was dividing us according to age. “Ten-year-olds, stand right here.” My cousin David joined them. “Nine-year-olds, here.” I joined them, nearly a head below every single one.

“David, are you really nine?” Jacob asked me.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m just—”

“Short,” he said. “Yes.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “Well, you can fight with the others your age, but if you ask me, I’d say join the seven-year-olds.”

I shook my head. They were little kids, and my brother Levi was in that group. I could hold my own.

When everyone was sorted, we strode down the cobblestones to the next street, Rue Saint Louis. Each street was a brotherhood of sorts. The kids on one street played baseball and soccer against the kids on the next street. And they organized fights against each other.

Rue Saint Louis was the home of my school’s bully, a huge 13-year-old named Albert. He had black hair and a pimply face. His parents were from Germany. His father didn’t like my family, so Albert didn’t like me. I thought it was because we made more money than they did, but my father once mentioned something about their anti-cement or something. Whatever the reason, I was glad Jacob was the referee, making sure kids of the same age only fought each other.

We marched between buildings of brick and stone and newer ones of wood and concrete. Rue Saint Louis had assembled their men, and the groups sized each other up.

As usual, we went from youngest to oldest. The six-year-old group from Saint Louis picked their man, and ours did the same. We all made a ring around them, and when Jacob blew his whistle we started shouting, “Fight! Fight!” We cheered when our side was winning, and groaned when the other side got the upper hand.

The seven-year-olds fought each other, then the eight-year-olds. When it got to us, my team picked me to start, as they knew I was the best fighter in my age group. I was to go up against Harold, the toughest fighter in the other group. He looked a bit nervous; I had a reputation for not losing fights.

We got into our stances, feeling the ground, fists up, and focused on any possible weakness. Everyone gathered in a circle around us, breathless and anticipating. Then Albert shoved his way from the back of the crowd to face me.

“Hey Jew Boy,” he sneered. Everyone backed up, and Harold skittered into his group of friends. Albert put his fists up and beckoned to me with his fat hands.

“Why do you always do this to me?” I asked. “This isn’t school—come on. I’ve tried to stay out of your way, but you just love beating up everyone smaller than you.” I looked to Jacob for help, but he was staring at Albert with a scared look. I groaned inwardly.

“You’re short, David. And a Jew Boy.” Albert licked his pudgy lips.

“So?”

“So I have two reasons to beat you up.” Albert guffawed.

“Have you ever fought New York style?” I asked. I squared up my body and raised my fists, looking for vulnerabilities.

Albert laughed, the half-cackling, half-booming laugh of a thirteen-year-old bully. “I don’t need New York style, David. I’ve got God on my side.” And he lunged.

As Albert charged, I noticed a bruise on the side of his neck, half-hidden by his shirt. And then I ducked—and darted to the side.

Albert grunted as he missed his punch and turned back to me. “Don’t try to outsmart me, Jew Boy,” he snarled.

“At least my dad’s richer than your dad!” I shouted back.

Albert grunted and lunged again. I dropped my weight to my hips and watched his arms. He was aiming for the side of my head, so I ducked even lower as he neared me, and shot my arm at his face, hoping and praying I’d hit something.

I heard a crunch and felt a tendon pop in my finger. Albert’s momentum carried him forward and he bowled over me, knocking us both to the ground. I hit my head on the street’s stones and saw blinking lights. We both started moaning, then Albert got off of me and took his hand away from his nose. It was covered in blood, and his nose looked a little bent. I had gotten a lucky punch.

“You’re gonna pay for this, Jew Boy,” he growled, raising his fists again, blood running into his mouth and down his chin. I was scared. I didn’t want to fight anymore.

“You started it, and I knocked you down,” I said, trying to keep the trembling from my voice. “So I win and we’re done.” I looked to Jacob again, desperate for support. He looked down. I seethed, but I knew Jacob had some history with Albert’s older brother. He was still afraid of that family. I didn’t blame him for that, but he was the referee. I ground my teeth as I accepted that I’d be getting no help from that quarter.

Albert ignored me and began to advance on me. I backed away, looking desperately for a way to not get killed. Then, with a yell, my brother Levi charged at Albert. “Stupid Gentile pig!” he screamed in his high voice, crashing his 7-year-old weight into Albert’s side. Albert hardly moved from the impact, but Levi rebounded off the bully and fell on his bottom.

“Levi! Get!” I shooed him toward the crowd. But Albert was laughing.

“You idiots.” He walked toward Levi. “You think you can get away with anything.”

Levi threw his arm out for another punch. “Bully!” he yelled.

Albert grabbed his arm and picked him up, shaking him like a rag doll. Levi whimpered at first, then screamed.

I couldn’t stand it. My head cleared and I felt power rushing into my limbs. I ran at Albert as fast as I could, my head down and my fists in front of my face. I crashed into his stomach, under Levi’s flailing limbs. He grunted. I kneed him below the belt, and he dropped Levi and fell to his knees. I swung at his temple and he finally fell to the street, groaning. I picked up my brother, who was bleeding on his elbow and leg.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

He nodded. I looked around at the group of shocked faces. My cousins each took one of Levi’s shoulders, and my big brother supported my left side. “Let’s go home,” he said.

We stumbled back to our apartment, the dusk muting our streaks of blood. Mother and Father were in urgent conversation in the kitchen, and as we came in Mother gasped and took Levi in her arms. While she petted him and bandaged his leg and elbow, I looked at her questioningly and asked about the napkins. “It’s all right, David,” she sighed at me as I washed the dirt and blood off my hands. “I’m going to return the napkins and go back to linen ones. It was a silly mistake.” She shook her head with a half-hearted smile.

Grandpa Sandor walked in. He narrowed his eyebrows at Mother, then turned to me and my cousins.

“What happened?” he grunted.

I hesitated, still sore with him for being mean to Mother. But she seemed okay now. I told him how we were having a fight with the boys on Rue Saint Louis, and how Albert had butted into my fight and tried to beat me. I told him that I was probably going to lose until Levi tried to help me. I told him how Albert had called me a Jew Boy and short. I told him about the rage that filled me when Albert started beating up Levi, and how I knocked Albert onto the ground.

When I finished, Grandpa’s grumpy expression had faded. His mustache twitched, and he nearly smiled. He looked down at me, nodded, and said, “You should be proud to be a Jew Boy.”