Free A Day of Small Beginnings by Lisa Pearl Rosenbaum Page A

forever.
Ach!
A pox on him.
    An awkward moment passed before Hillel took Itzik by the arm and led him back into the crowded street to Pesha Goldman’s empty
     apartment. He pointed to a chair by the kitchen table. “Sit down. I’ll pour you a cup of hot water,” he said.
    Eventually, Itzik began to speak. “What happened, I’m not even sure,” he mumbled, not taking his eyes off the cup.
    Hillel sat down opposite and laid his open hands on the table. “Try,” he said very gently, because Itzik looked sure to fall
     apart.
    A mishmash of words came. “The boys had Yudel the Teacher’s lantern. It was late. I was on the other side of the road, but
     I saw Jan, the one with the laugh, the famous one. He had the whip out again. Always he has it out for the littlest ones.
     But the horse made him fall, not me.” Itzik looked up at Hillel, tears all over his face. “Now he’s dead.”
    Hillel waited patiently for him to go on.
    “The Poles came after me. I hid in the cemetery until they left. Then I went to Avrum Kollek. He gave me money, and he went
     for the Russian magistrate.” Itzik choked back more tears and collapsed in his chair, a heap of shaking rags.
    I sang to him, curled my soul around him, and tried to soothe him as I’d soothed his mother. Nothing. Hillel came around the
     table and put a hand on his shoulder. “You did what you could.” He waited for Itzik to calm. I pulled back. Useless again.
     Even my gravestone he’d left out. For him, this was nothing. How was I to help this boy if he didn’t even know I was part
     of his story?
    Hillel’s dreamy eyes had a look of melancholy. Their crinkled corners had lost their laughter. “We’ll have to hide you while
     I organize some papers for you and book the boat passage to America,” he said. Itzik hung his head, but Hillel, suddenly excited
     by his plan, rushed on. “We’ll put you in Pesha’s darkroom! It’ll be safe. It’s perfect!” He laughed and coaxed a smile from
     the boy.
    Later, Pesha Goldman, may his name be inscribed forever, agreed to hide Itzik, even though it was a danger.
    Itzik didn’t take much more on his journey to America than the clothes on his body and the contents of his small sack. The
     sun shone so bright on the day he left, it reached even the Goldmans’ damp basement apartment. Devora filled the sack with
     freshly baked poppy-seed rolls. “Safe journey, Itzik,” she said. Pesha smiled and handed him the two photographs they’d taken
     the day after Itzik had arrived in Warsaw. They were mounted on cards, with the studio name and address on the bottom right
     corner.
    Itzik stared at one, his portrait. He looked so fine, dressed in the stately studio clothes Pesha had fastened in the back
     with clips. The second photograph was of him seated, with Hillel standing next to him, his hand on Itzik’s shoulder. In the
     white border below, Pesha had written,
Chaverim—May 5, 1906.
    Hillel glanced at Pesha’s writing. “Friends,” he said sadly.
    “Take them both,” Pesha told Itzik. “With what’s going on, we can’t keep them.”
    Hillel looked longingly at the photograph of the two of them.
    “Thank you,” Itzik murmured.
    Pesha winked at Itzik. “Don’t worry. They’ll never recognize the criminal Itzik Leiber under that cap Hillel got you.”
    This made everyone smile, even Hillel. It was true. The cap was so big, all you could see was Itzik’s chin. He tugged nervously
     at the knots in his sack, and once again his eyes filled with tears. “I’ll send you my address when I get to America. I’ll
     send you pictures of Indians.”
    Pesha nodded and patted him softly on the back, after which Hillel took him by the arm and led him out the door. The two of
     them wound their way through the back streets of Warsaw to the train station.
    As they waited by the train, Itzik said timidly, “I won’t forget you ever, or what you taught me.”
    Hillel chuckled, a little sadly, and rechecked