Jesses Star (3 page)

He took a deep breath. Up, he heaved. Knee-high. Waist-high. Chest-high. Shoulder — ahhh — ohhh — NOOO! — The beets shifted. The basket overturned, spilling its load on Golda, the matchmaker, who had just come to unload a basket of her own.

“Owww!” Golda yelled, hopping on one foot. “My toe! My foot! I'm injured!”

Yossi heard a giggle. He turned. Miriam's hand was clamped over her mouth. She winked at him.

Yossi grinned. It
was
funny, the sight of Golda hopping around like a crazed chicken.

But right now, the look in Golda's eye wasn't one bit funny.

Yossi began to put the basket over his head. Too late. Golda had spotted him.

“You! Yossi Mendelsohn! You clumsy oaf! You beet-spilling trouble-maker!”

“I'm sorry, Golda, I didn't mean to —” Yossi began, but Mama and Papa came running. They scolded Yossi, then hustled Golda away, murmuring apologies.

Yossi sighed. He'd done it again. Why did accidents always happen to him? How he longed to help with the beets, to make himself useful, to show what a fine boy he was.

“Clumsy child …,” he heard someone say. “Always underfoot …,” someone else grumbled.

Just wait, Yossi thought, as he sheepishly began picking up the spilled beets. Just wait until I master the stilts. Then you'll see.

Finally, all the beets were dug. Mud-bespattered, leaning on their spades, the villagers gathered ‘round to admire the harvest. The pile of beets curved above the edges of the barrel.

“Praise God,” cried Mama.

“Such a bountiful crop,” said Papa.

“Plenty for everyone,” said Simon with a satisfied sigh.

“True, true, Simon,” Sadie, Daniel's mother, put in, “we'll all have full bellies this winter.”

Golda, now miraculously recovered, shoved importantly to the front. “I knew, friends, when we planted the seeds, that they were special. A good crop will come from these seeds, I said. I knew it in my bones. Some have a way of knowing these things.”

“Oh, be quiet, you old busybody,” Yossi said under his breath, and Miriam giggled.

The Rebbe came forward, his long black robe muddy. “Hurry, friends,” he said. “We must get the crop safely stored in the root cellar before the soldiers make off with it.”

Yossi groaned. He wanted nothing more than to rest, but he knew the Rebbe was
right. Several years before, in 1881, Czar Alexander II had been killed, and many Russian people had blamed the Jews. Since then, Russian soldiers had run wild in the countryside, terrorizing Jewish villages. Innocent people had been killed, their homes burned to the ground. Thousands of Jews, the lucky ones, had escaped —to other countries in Europe, even across the sea to the New World.

Not so the Jews of Braslav. A troop of Russian soldiers had an encampment near the village, and they seemed to delight in tormenting the villagers. “Jewish devils,” the soldiers called them, robbing and beating them at will. Yet, although they despised the Jews, they refused to let them go, keeping them prisoner in their own village.

Sometimes Yossi thought it was because the Jews were an easy source of food. Often, when the soldiers' supplies ran low, they helped themselves to the villagers' livestock and crops. Just last
month they'd made off with Simon's flock of laying hens. When he tried to stop them, they burned down his carpenter shop. Yossi could still picture the leaping flames, fed by Simon's precious supply of wood.

So Yossi knew the Rebbe was right. So far, the soldiers hadn't discovered the root cellar. It was important to hide the beets before they came again.

Wearily, he took his place between Mama and Papa, loading boxes, a layer of beets, then a layer of straw, so the beets would stay fresh and moist all winter; then handing the full boxes down the line, ready to start filling the next.

“Faster, Yossi, in case the soldiers are nearby,” Mama urged.

“What's new, they're always nearby,” said Rivka, Simon's wife.

“But if the beets are hidden away in the root cellar —” Yossi began.

“What's to stop them from finding the root cellar and taking all the beets?” said
Eli, the potter — and the gloomiest man in Braslav.

“Just like they took my hens,” said Simon.

“Be glad they spared your life, Simon,” Golda said, wagging a finger.

“For not having his head hacked off he should be grateful?” Rivka said.

“That's what they did to old Sam Rubin in Vladstok, may he rest in peace,” Golda said. “He refused to let them take his horse. Worthless old nag, but Sam loved the poor beast. They chopped off Sam's head, then set fire to his cottage.”

Yossi shuddered.

“God deliver us from this tormented country,” Sadie said.

“If only, Sadie, if only …,” Papa said, raising a hand to heaven.

“Hannah, Sam's widow, made it to Canada, they say,” Golda added.

“Canada,” Mama repeated. “I hear it's a marvelous place. Forests so big you could ride for days and never reach the end of them …”

“Clear, fresh water …,” Papa added.

“And no Russian soldiers!” Simon shouted to the cheers of all.

Canada … Canada … Yossi rolled the name around on his tongue. It sounded wonderful. It sounded like freedom.

Eli laughed harshly. “And how would we get to Canada, friends? How can we ever get away from Braslav with those soldiers watching us all the time?”

“It's because they love us so,” Sadie joked, and everyone laughed.

“Hah!” Eli said with a toss of his head. “It's only for the pleasure of finding new ways to torment us.”

“They hate Jews, but they won't let us leave. Some sense that makes,” Rivka said.

“Faster, faster!” The Rebbe came down the line of workers.

Yossi worked feverishly, loading box after box. Then, in the distance, he heard a sound.

Hoof beats.

So did the other villagers.

“They're coming!”

“Not again!”

“Spare us!”

The barrel was still over half-full of beets. No way to hide them before the soldiers came. “Quick, close the trap door,” the Rebbe said.

Simon and Eli dragged the root cellar door into place, then quickly strew hay over it so the entrance was hidden.

Two horses, pulling an empty cart, clopped down the road to the village. Two soldiers sat astride the horses. Two others sat in the cart, their boots dangling over the edge.

“Woah!” yelled one of the riders. The horses came to a halt before the barrel. The soldiers hopped to the ground. Yossi fought not to tremble. He forced himself not to look at the glistening curved blades of the soldiers' sabers, hanging at their waists.

The soldiers advanced. “I see you have
had an excellent harvest, Jews,” the tallest one said in Russian.

“Not so good, sirs, not so good,” the Rebbe answered in Russian, indicating the half-full barrel. Shuffling his feet like an old man, he kicked more straw over the root cellar door.

Please, God, don't let them see, Yossi prayed.

“Plenty enough for us, eh, Misha?” sneered another soldier. Short and round, he walked with a swagger that would have been comical, Yossi thought — if this had been a comical situation.

“And you so kindly have done all the digging for us,” a skinny soldier said. His mate, a red-cheeked fellow with a thick brown moustache, joined him in a jeering laugh.

The one called Misha rested a hand on the handle of his saber. He seemed to be the leader. “Start loading — into the cart.”

The Jews stood there.

“Now!”

“But sirs,” the Rebbe said, “we have worked hard, planting and weeding and tending these beets. They are ours.”

“Be quiet, you fool!” Misha drew out his saber and held it high. It glistened in the sunlight. Gasping, the Jews took a step back. But Yossi saw that, despite his brave words and his raised weapon, Misha did not look directly at the Rebbe. He kept his eyes to the side. Yossi wondered why.

But there was no time to wonder. “Now!” Misha roared again, as the other three soldiers pulled out their sabers. Without a word, the villagers began to load the remaining beets into the soldiers' cart.

Bitterly, Yossi dumped armful after armful into the cart. All that work, all that hope — for nothing. He longed to do something to stop the soldiers, to chase them away, to punish them. But what? He knew that if he so much as opened his mouth to protest, not only would he get killed, but worse, he would bring the wrath of the soldiers on the entire village.
So he stood there, full of fury and fear, making powerless fists.

Finally the barrel stood empty.

“Next time,” Misha yelled, “no back talk, old man, or heads will roll!”

The soldiers sheathed their sabers and rode away.

All the villagers gathered around the Rebbe. Some were cursing. Many were weeping.

“Rebbe, Rebbe, they almost took your life!”

“Those thieving rogues, may God punish them!”

“What will we do? What will we do?”

“Come, come,” said the Rebbe, “not a hair on my head is hurt. And at least they didn't take the beets in the root cellar. We still have almost half the crop.”

“And what will we do this winter when those are gone and our stomachs are growling?” Eli said bitterly.

“We'll manage,” the Rebbe said. “As we always have.”

A sob rang out, and Yossi recognized Mama's cry. Papa put his arms around her and held her. Yossi saw that Miriam was crying, too.

He felt like crying himself. It was terrible to feel so powerless. But he didn't want to cry. He wanted to fight back, to teach the soldiers a lesson.

Someday he would, Yossi vowed. He'd think of something, anything, to pay the soldiers back.

The Jews worked feverishly through that night and the next to gather in the harvest. Thankfully, the soldiers did not return, and the potatoes and turnips were safely hidden in the root cellar.

Now, several days later, the villagers stood in a grassy patch beside the tumble-down hut that served as Braslav's
schul
, or synagogue. Tonight was the start of
Sukkot
, the week-long Jewish harvest festival, when Jews gave thanks for the blessings of the land. They were building the
sukkah
, or house of branches, that symbolized the green, bountiful earth. Morning and evening, throughout Sukkot, they would gather under the shade of the sukkah, to pray and celebrate.

First, Papa and Simon drove twelve slender poles into the ground, two rows of six facing each other. Then they attached cross pieces to make a grid.

“Now we need willow branches for the walls,” Mama said. “Miriam, down you go to the stream bank and gather some. Long and leafy, mind.”

Daniel sprang forward. “I'll go with her,” he said. Miriam blushed. Daniel blushed. “Just to keep her safe,” he added. “In case of soldiers.”

“Big, brave hero,” Jonah said sourly. “What could you do?”

“I'll protect her,” Daniel said firmly.

“And a little time alone doesn't hurt,
either,” Golda observed, and everyone laughed.

Giggling, Miriam and Daniel set off. The villagers waited. And waited.

“Where are those two?” Papa asked.

“Gathering more than willow branches, I dare say,” Golda said, arching her eyebrows.

“They're taking an awfully long time,” Mama said. “What if —”

But just then Miriam and Daniel came back, their arms full of branches. Behind the screen of leaves, their hands were entwined, and they gazed lovingly at each other.

“Miriam! Daniel!” Golda scolded. “Stop with the doe eyes and get those branches over here.”

Everyone turned. Miriam and Daniel dropped hands and turned tomato-red. Laughter rang out. “You're not married yet, you two!” Mama said, wagging her finger.

“Such lovebirds,” Sadie sighed.

Teasing the red-faced pair, the villagers began weaving the long willow branches in and out of the wooden grid, turning the two sides of the sukkah into green, leafy walls.

Yossi pressed forward, willow branch in hand. “Here, let me.” He tried to squeeze his way to the front, but Jonah turned watery eyes on him. “Go away, little pest.” Several people snickered. “Don't let him get near the sukkah — you know what happened to the beets,” Jonah added. There was more laughter. Yossi turned away, scowling.

Once the branches had been woven into place, the villagers brought baskets of long-necked gourds, ears of corn, apples and pears, onions and herbs. All these they wove into the leaves, turning the walls into a garden paradise.

Yossi grabbed an apple and tucked its stem between two entwined branches. The stem slipped out. Yossi shoved it in again, bruising the apple. The apple fell. Bending
to pick it up, he stomped on it.

Golda had seen. “Yossi Mendelsohn, scram! You'll ruin everything.”

No one lets me help, Yossi thought. How can I show what I can do if they don't give me a chance?