I’ve stopped thinking about it. They’ll manage. Somehow, something, someone. I don’t know

Tovi

During recess, we huddled under the heater, letting the warmth thaw our stiff fingers. Chaya Leah said now she understood why they used to collect wood for poor people in the old days in Europe. Gitty said that tzedakah organizations buy heaters for poor families today, too, or help them pay their heating billls in the winter. Tziviah said she’d rather freeze than take tzedakah — too humiliating. Chaya Leah told Tziviah she’d take it soon enough if she had to go through one winter night without heating.

I kept quiet.

Maybe there are girls right here in this class in just that situation, I thought. Girls whose fathers get money from tzedakah funds. And they might feel bad.

“There’s no shame in taking tzedakah, if you need it,” I said loud and clear. Everyone looked at me. They all know that my mother sells cakes and desserts, and my father works at the newspaper office. But they probably don’t know that even two salaries aren’t always enough for a family with kids and a mortgage. I know, because I listen when the grown-ups are talking.

Ima gets annoyed with me when she finds out I’ve been sitting there listening again. “Tovi,” she says, “why don’t you go read a book? Did you finish Mystery at the Big Cliff yet?”

“Or talk with girls your own age,” Savta Silver says nicely. She forgets that there aren’t any girls my age in this family — only boys. My cousin Sari Bernfeld is two years younger than me.

“Go out for a while, sit and chat with the neighbors’ daughters,” Savta says, shooing me out.

“But you talk about much more interesting stuff,” I say, pouting.

So by piecing together bits of information, I know we have no extra money lying around. I don’t let myself think further — for example, how they’re going to pay Dr. Barclay for my operation. It’s already the end of Teves now, and I’m supposed to have my surgery right after Pesach. My passport is waiting in a drawer, stiff and blue, with a nice new smell, a picture, and sticker with an eagle — my entry visa to the US. Abba already booked plane tickets for me and Ima. He might fly in, too, afterward, and let her come home, depending on how long my recovery takes.

Everything’s ready. We even have the names of some nice Jewish families who host people over there. All that’s missing is the money for the medical fees. But I’ve stopped thinking about it. They’ll manage. Somehow, something, someone. I don’t know.