Free The Lion Seeker by Kenneth Bonert

Yitz. The shammos reckons they drove right up on here by the tire marks. Old Mrs. Holberg reckons she saw lights four in the morning. Check it: forget Shabbos, the shammos he’s awready went to the cop shop. Know what they tuned him? Said it’s pro’lly
our kids
who did it for a laugh. Told him, Don’t take it so serious.
    Shimmy Kahn snorts. —So serious. Ja, watch how serious they take it if we slap some kuk upside one a their churches. Pull down pants and take a few nice Yiddish shits all over their bimah.
    â€”I don’t reckon they got bimahs in church, shmock.
    â€”Bimah-shmimah. Whatever the eff it is in there.
    Big Benny taps his palm with his fist. —What we need, set a trap. Wait round here for a Greyshirt. Make him a dead shirt.
    Still half in his numb mood, Isaac says: —But why they doing it? I mean like
why
. They don’t even know us.
    Rodney Epstein squawks laughter. —The boy asks why. Listen, Rabies, you ever open a newspaper your whole life?
    Isaac steps close. —You ever eat one?
    â€”Oright, don’t have triplets, mate. Don’t catch a harry. I’m only saying.
    Noam Levinson has had his spectacles off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Now he settles them back on, says: —They got them everywhere, right. They love Hitler, ole Adolph’s their god. It’s like this club is spreading over the world. They got their Brownshirts in Germany, the Blackshirts in Italy and in England. Different-coloured shirts for different kinds of mumzors. Who knows what else, Blueshirts, Pinkshirts. Now we got them over here. But our chutus is so thick he can’t even pick a real colour. So they just gave em grey.
    Rodney Epstein: —It’s getting big hey, everywhere.
    â€”They should all stick with brown for their shirts, ay, the colour of shit. Brown
shits
, Black
shits
, Grey
shits
.
    â€”I think just plain
shits
about covers it, Shimmy.
    â€”These shirt kinds are all the same, Noam Levinson tells Isaac. Pure race this, pure race that. Only one blood per country. Anyone else, chuck em out. And any problems blame on the Jews.
    â€”Hell, they getting big man, says Rodney Epstein. I heard they had like a thousand in town. They go by City Hall there.
    â€”It’s not a thousand.
    â€”S’what I heard.
    â€”Your ears is full of idiot wax.
    Noam Levinson: —Ja, well. My old man reckons half the guvmint is in with them!
    This pricks at Isaac; he turns from the fallen lion. —No, no, he tells them all. Not Jannie Smuts.
    A pocket of curious silence accrues around him.
    â€”Listen a Rabies, says Big Benny Dulut. What a you, a doctor in politics now?
    The others watch him while heat fills his face. Benny’s big, ja, but Rabies is Rabies, even standing right outside shul.
    Noam Levinson breaks the moment: —I don’t reckon Smuts can help much. All the cops and army is in with the other lot, what my old man says. Plus opposition is bladey Malan and the Nats—I mean they kissing cousins with these Greyshirts! Can turn like Germany here!
    There’s another silence of a different kind. Isaac looks at the wall, feels the others doing the same. He shakes his head. —Jannie Smuts won’t never let it happen, he says.
    Noam Levinson’s tongue clicks. —Jannie Smuts, Jannie Smuts. He’s not even Prime Minister, mate. He’s deputy and Hertzog’s in charge and Hertzog used to be a Nat, don’t forget. And Jannie’s not so great anyway, like he did nothing when they stuck Quota on us hey.
    Big Benny: —Slice their necks. Bleed em like chickens, turn em proper grey. Slice their bladey necks open.
    Isaac’s squinting. —What you talking Quota?
    Noam Levinson’s arms wave; he has to push at his glasses to keep them from sliding. —Quota Act, Quota Act man. The law they put for no more Jews to come. Cut us right off. Don’t you even know?
    Blood blooms fully in Isaac’s