Jesses Star (2 page)

Get ready for nothing, Jesse told himself. Still, as he lifted the lid, he felt strangely excited.

An old photograph. A blue cloth bag tied with a yellow drawstring.

That was all.

Shoot! Nothing good. Nothing to help him.

He knew it.

Now what?

Give up. Go downstairs.

Thanks a lot, Yossi, he thought. Some help you are.

Jesse started to close the box, but
something made him take out the photo-graph. It must have originally been black and white, but now it was yellowish brown and curled at the edges. He peered at it. A group of people, forty or so, were standing in front of a large ship, most clutching small canvas bags. They looked tired. And poor. Their clothes were shabby and plain. The men and boys wore cloth caps; the women wore scarves. At the front of the group stood a boy about Jesse's age, nine or ten. Short pants held up by suspenders, white shirt not quite tucked in, knee socks disappearing into high-buttoned boots, short-brimmed cap shoved over dark curls.

All the people looked serious. Proud, sort of, Jesse thought. Determined. But not smiling. They looked like people who didn't smile much.

Except for the boy. A big grin lit his face.

Jesse wondered if this was Yossi. A tingle on the back of his neck told him it was. He turned the photo over, searching
for names. There were none, but in faded, now-brown ink, was written the words: “Canada! 1890.”

Not just “Canada,” but Canada with an exclamation point. These people were really glad to be here. It meant a lot to them — more than he'd realized. And at least now he knew his relatives had come in 1890. That was better than nothing.

But not much. One little fact wasn't going to save his report. If only there was a diary in the box, or passports, or —

Then he remembered the cloth bag. He opened the drawstring. Something inside glittered. Jesse shook it into his hand. Out fell a tarnished, six-sided Star of David on a slender chain.

Big deal, Jesse thought. What's so special about an old Jewish star?

But he took a closer look, and saw gold glinting out from under the dull brown tarnish. And was he imagining it, or did his palm feel warm where the star lay? No, that couldn't be.

Idly, Jesse unclasped the chain and fastened it around his neck. The star rested in the hollow of his throat. Heat seemed to melt into his chest, right where the star touched his skin. He grasped the star in his hand.

Jesse began to feel dizzy. The air in the attic went blurry, as if he'd put on a pair of glasses coated with oil. The bookcase shimmered in front of his eyes, then melted away. The box in his hands grew lighter, then disappeared. Jesse felt his hair grow longer. He felt his jeans shrink into knee-length trousers, his high-tops turn into heavy boots.

A tumble-down wooden hut hovered blurrily in front of him. An apple tree materialized hazily. Everything — his clothes, the hut, the tree — was in black and white, with yellowed tones. The musty smell of dust and old books faded away, and a whiff of hay and apples and barnyard floated on the air.

Somehow, Jesse knew he was turning into
Yossi. He was becoming his great-great-grandfather! Thoughts started coming into his head in a new language. At once he realized it was Yiddish. Yet, strangely, he understood it perfectly, and Russian, too. And instead of being odd or frightening, it all felt right. Normal. As if this was the way things were supposed to be.

Like a camera coming into focus, the blurriness began to clear. The smells became sharper. The dizziness went away. Black and white transformed into bright, vivid color.

It was autumn, 1890, in the small Russian village of Braslav. And Jesse was Yossi.

“Look at me!” Yossi yelled, teetering on the garden path. This was the longest he'd ever managed to stay up on his stilts. One second … two … three … “Quick, every-body, look!” Six … seven …

He was as high as the branches of the apple tree, so close he could reach out and grab a ripe red apple — only he didn't dare let go of his stilts, not even for a second,
because he was still learning.

“Miriam, Mama, Papa, look!”

Miriam, clipping bunches of dill weed in Mama's herb garden, looked. Papa, his axe poised over the wood chopping block, looked. Mama, up to her elbows in a bucket of soapy water, looked.

“Yossi Mendelsohn,” Mama hollered, shaking a soapy fist, “you are supposed to be picking apples, not prancing around like a clown.”

Papa's two black eyebrows drew together in one angry line. “Put away those ridiculous stilts this minute! Whoever heard of such a thing, hobbling around up in the clouds? There's work to be done.”

“But Mama, Papa, look at me! I've never stayed up so long.” Twelve seconds, thirteen … Yossi teetered, then righted himself. “See how I'm improving? Yesterday I could only stay up half this long. Soon I'll be able to pick the apples without even using a ladder!”

“We are not waiting until that fortunate
day comes,” Papa said threateningly. “You'll pick those apples
now, with
a ladder.”

“
And
without dropping them all in the mud, like usual,” Mama added, going into the cottage to fetch more dirty clothes.

“One more minute,” Yossi begged. “Just one. For luck. Then, I promise, I'll pick every apple. I won't miss a single one.”

“Yossi —” Papa scolded, but Yossi teetered away, pretending not to hear. He so desperately wanted to be good on the stilts. “Silly Yossi.” “Clumsy Yossi.” That's what all the villagers called him. And Yossi couldn't blame them. He was forever dropping things. Or bashing into people. Or tripping over his own feet. Even just walking the village cow to pasture, he managed to fall into a puddle or get the cow stuck in a swamp.

But then he had discovered the stilts. Simon, the village carpenter, had carved him a pair. And now Yossi was determined to master the stilts. What fun it was to soar so high above the heads of all the
villagers! How powerful he felt! Best of all, if he could only become expert at stilt-walking, everyone would stop laughing at him. Stop teasing him. Stop calling him names.

And just look how well he was doing! One foot, the other foot … past the herb garden where Miriam knelt beside her basket … Left, right … past the chopping block where Papa balanced a round of fir … Step, step … over to where Mama's two laundry buckets sat, one with soapy water, for scrubbing the clothes, the other with clear water, for rinsing …

Forward, march … Yossi's excitement mounted. This was his best yet. He'd taken so many steps, he'd lost count already. How skillful he was! How acrobatic —

Mama stepped out of the cottage, her arms full of clothes. The motion caught Yossi's eye. He turned. He leaned. “Woah —” Farther. “Wooaahh —” He tried to push himself back the other way. He succeeded. He was upright — but only for a second. Then he began
to tip the other way. “Wah — woo — wow — woaahhh —”

One stilt landed in the bucket of sudsy water. The bucket tipped. The soapy clothes spilled onto the ground.

“Yossi!” Mama yelled.

“Waaaahhhh —” Frantically, Yossi stabbed the other stilt to the side. It landed in the other bucket. With a whoosh, the clean clothes splashed onto the dirt.

“WOOOAAAHHHOOOAAAHHH!!” Yossi landed on top of the clothes.

“I'll kill him, so help me God!” Mama hollered, advancing on Yossi. “His neck I'll strangle!”

“I'll assist you,” Papa roared. “With pleasure!”

“Oh, Yossi,” Miriam said with a sympathetic sigh.

“I'm sorry, Mama,” Yossi said. He tried to get up but his feet slipped on the soapy puddle. “I'll fix it. I'll clean it. I'll wash the clothes.” Dripping, he managed to stand.

Mama and Papa stood glaring at him. Please God, Yossi thought, don't let them take away my stilts.

“You were supposed to be picking the apples,” Papa began.

“Yes, Papa.”

“Lord knows, we have to get the crop picked and put away before the thieving Russian soldiers come to steal it out from under our noses!”

“Yes, Papa.”

“So what are you doing, playing with those foolish sticks, prancing in the air, making enough trouble for ten rascally boys? Is that helpful?”

“Yes, Papa. I mean, no, Papa.”

Now Mama spoke. “You will put the stilts away.”

“Yes, Mama.” Thank you, God, he thought.

“You will fetch me fresh water. Two buckets full.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“You will wash the clothes.”

“Yes, Mama.” He gulped. He'd only
offered to do that to make Mama stop yelling. He hadn't thought she'd really make him do it.

“Then you will pick the apples.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“AND YOU WILL STAY OUT OF TROUBLE FOR THE REST OF THE DAY!” Mama and Papa shouted together.

“Yes, Mama. Yes, Papa.”

“Now, go.”

Yossi scooped up the stilts. His wet trousers clung to him, and water sloshed in his boots. As he passed the herb garden, Miriam hissed. “Psst, Yossi!”

He turned.

Miriam winked. “I'll help you.”

Yossi winked back. “Thanks.”

No mystery why Miriam was being so nice. It was because he'd done her a favor the day before. Miriam was fourteen, old enough to wed, and yesterday Golda, the matchmaker, had come to the cottage to announce that she'd picked Miriam a husband. Jonah. Jonah with the watery eyes.
Jonah with the clammy hands.

Yossi knew Miriam didn't like Jonah. And he knew something else, too. That she was sweet on Daniel, son of their neighbor Sadie.

So Yossi had done some fast thinking. He'd pointed out that Jonah was left-handed, and Miriam was right-handed, and when they stood side by side under the
chuppah
, the bridal canopy, and reached for the ritual cup of wine they both would drink from, they'd bump hands and spill the wine. What a bad omen that would be!

“
Oy
, a very bad omen,” Golda had agreed worriedly, and Miriam's eyes had twinkled.

Then, slyly, Yossi had mentioned that Daniel was right-handed. And before you knew it, Golda was suggesting, just as if she'd thought of it herself, that Daniel would be a perfect match for Miriam. So it was decided.

Later, Miriam had given Yossi a big hug.

Now, Yossi lifted the two wooden
buckets and headed to the well. With Miriam's help he could finish all his chores in time to fit in one more practice session on the stilts before the evening meal. And he had to practice. So he would improve. So he could show the rest of the village that Yossi Mendelsohn was someone to be respected. Not jeered at.

The next morning, Yossi grabbed both handles of a large straw basket and lifted. “Unnhh!” Loaded to the brim with beets, the basket was heavy. His thin arms ached.

But he didn't complain. He'd show everyone he could work like a grown-up. And, he told himself, all this lifting and carrying would make him stronger for stilt- walking.

Each family in Braslav tended a small kitchen garden of its own, for herbs and fresh greens. But together they tilled a communal plot, where they grew crops for all. Today, they were starting the autumn harvest with the beets. In a few days, the potatoes. Last, the turnips. And then the root cellar — an earth-walled building dug into the ground next to the garden — would be brimming with the hearty vegetables that, God willing, would keep them alive during the long, cold winter.

Even the
Rebbe
, the religious leader of the village, rolled up the sleeves of his long black robe, and toiled like a common worker. In a small village like Braslav, everyone had to pitch in.

Yossi lugged the basket toward a large wooden barrel that stood between the garden and the root cellar. Almost there … almost … THERE! Now all he had to do was lift up the basket and dump his load into the barrel.

Earlier in the day, it hadn't been so
hard. That was when Yossi's arms weren't so tired. But now they ached with fatigue. He could have sworn that the beets grew heavier, and the sides of the barrel rose higher, as the day wore on.