You better stop when I tell you to.”
The tall boy jumped in front of him and blocked his way. Immediately five other boys came out from doorways and alleyways and surrounded him. One grabbed the basket out of his hand. The tall boy demanded, “Okay, bastard. Tell me why you were whistling. Are you a bird, or just a bird-brain?”
Josef stammered under his breath, “I . . . I’m not a bird. I’m a person.”
“You hear that, boys? He thinks he’s a person!”
“He’s not a person, he’s a bastard!”
The boys pushed Josef into an alley and up against a wall. They crowded close around him.
“Who’s your father, bastard?”
“Tell us who your father is.”
Josef remained silent.
“Hey, fellows, he can’t tell us who his father is!”
“That’s ‘cause he’s a bastard and he ain’t got no father.”
“I’ll bet his mother’s a whore.”
Josef had never heard that word before, but he felt sure it was an ugly word. Tears filled his eyes and he cried out, “She is not!”
“Cry-baby. Look, he’s crying ‘cause his mother’s a whore.”
The boys began pushing him back and forth between them and calling out “Cry-baby” at each push. Josef heard the familiar chant echoing in his ears from all sides. Suddenly it stopped.
“Who’s there?” came a quavering voice from the head of the alley. Josef knew the voice. It was Father Albert, the old priest who was nearly blind.
“Who’s there?” came the voice again.
The tall boy whispered something to the others. All but one of them disappeared out the back side of the alley—they left the red-haired boy to guard Josef. He immediately grabbed Josef’s wrist and told him not to move and not to say anything. He said the boys would come back and give him a “cudgeling” if he cried out. They stood silently with their backs against a wall for a few minutes, the red-haired boy keeping a tight grip on Josef’s wrist. They heard no more from the old priest.
From the back side of the alley came the sound of footsteps. It seemed to Josef more like the sound of one person than like a whole gang of boys. Whoever it was walked up close to them and might have passed by without stopping, except that Josef gave out a short, involuntary sob.
“What’s going on here?” asked the one who had just arrived.
“Get lost,” said the red-haired boy.
“Let me hear from the other boy first.”
Josef was too frightened to speak but he sobbed again.
“Okay. Let go of him, and if you won’t tell me what’s going on, then you just get out of here.” With that the speaker clenched his fists and glared at the red-haired boy, who backed away slowly. From a safe distance, he threatened to return with his gang and beat them up. Then he spun around and ran.
The new boy turned to Josef. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Josef.”
“Well I’m Mosche. I’m nine years old, but my granny says I’m big for my age, and strong too. Where do you live?”
“Down Market Street, behind the butcher shop.”
“Come on, I’ll walk you home.”
Josef found his basket. One of the boys had dropped it in the alley. He picked up the vegetables that had spilled out and carefully put them back in place. “Where do you live?” he asked as the two boys emerged from the alley.
Mosche pointed in the direction of the market square, but more toward the river. “Over there, in the Jewish quarter.”
“Does that mean you’re a Jew?”
“Yes, I’m a Jew.”
“What’s a Jew?”
Mosche laughed. “Well, my mother and father are Jews, and my sister. We read Torah and keep the laws and worship the Holy One.”
“You can read?” asked Josef in astonishment.
“Yes. I started school when I was six years old. All the boys do. And some of the girls learn to read at home.”
“I’m six years old, and I don’t go to school.”
“Do you want to?”
“I can’t, because I have to haul water in the morning and help my mother in the afternoon.” Josef hesitated. “Could . . . could you teach me to read?”
“Well, my father says it is the duty of every scholar to teach others. So I guess if you want to learn to read, I’ll have to teach you. But you’ll need to know Hebrew first.”
“Okay.”
“All right. I make deliveries for my father every morning except Sabbath. I guess we could meet early at the market and do lessons while we walk around.”
Josef was becoming excited. “Yes! My mother mends clothes, and sometimes she asks me to return them to their owners. It would help her if I did all the returns. And some mornings I get sewing supplies and shop at the market. Could we meet every day?”
“Well, let’s try it once or twice and see how it goes.”
The following Monday morning Josef approached the market square apprehensively. Was this the morning they had agreed upon? Would Mosche be waiting for him out in the open, or would he conceal himself? What if they couldn’t find each other? What if Mosche decided he didn’t want to bother teaching a kid he met on the street?
When he passed the last buildings and emerged into the square, there was Mosche! He was waiting by the well in the middle of the square. Beside him was a small pull-cart loaded with hunks of cheese of all sizes, from slim wedges to huge wheels. Josef ran to meet him, holding tightly to the articles of clothing draped over his shoulder.
“I’m here!” he called out.
Mosche laughed. “I can see that. Let’s get started. I usually go down Martinus Road toward the old prison, then over on Corn Lane and back up Chambers Street, with visits to some of the side streets. Sometimes I cut through an alley to Market Street, like I did the day I met you.” After a short pause he added, “Who was that ugly red-haired kid?”
Josef winced. “Just someone who hates me.”
“Well, don’t worry about him. He won’t bother you when you’re with me.”
The boys set out together to make deliveries. Mosche began his instruction immediately. “Okay, here’s how it works. First you learn the Hebrew alphabet. Those are letters we use to make words. You learn how to pronounce
