Moshe

By Adrien Leduc

Ottawa. 1949. Moshe Silverstein doesn't quite fit in. A Type 1 diabetic and one of the only Jewish students at school, the diminutive eleven year old has few friends and is tormented on a daily basis. Things come to a head when the class bully sidelines his dream of becoming a professional musician. With the help of a classmate and Lenny Katzman, the aged boxer and owner of Lenny's Gym, Moshe gains the confidence to confront his tormentors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adrien Leduc
• Release date: Jun 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476413648

Adrien Leduc

Originally from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Adrien Leduc makes his home in Victoria, British Columbia with his wife Ashley and beloved Cuban chihuahua Beyonce. A graduate of Carleton University (BA '10), Adrien is an avid fan of Canadian history and hopes to write many more books in his lifetime.

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Moshe

Adrien Leduc

Copyright © 2012. Adrien Leduc. Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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(Leduc, Adrien 1987- )

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form than that in which it is published.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

SYNOPSIS

Ottawa. 1949. Moshe Silverstein doesn't quite fit in. A Type 1 diabetic and one of the only Jewish students at school, the diminutive eleven year old has few friends and is tormented on a daily basis. With the help of a classmate and Lenny Katzman, an aged boxer and owner of Lenny's Gym, Moshe learns to fight and gains self confidence in himself. The story comes to a head when Moshe has a final showdown with his tormentors.

DEDICATION

For Robert Hinitt (1926 - 2011). A good man and a good friend. A fellow romantic who set a fine example of meshing the real with the fantastical.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

In the early days of diabetes treatment, Type 1 diabetics (juvenile diabetes or diabetes mellitus) had to test their sugars by peeing into a test tube and then adding a chemical mixture. The blood sugar level was determined by the resulting colour of the mixture. Blood sugar metres became available only in the nineteen-eighties. (I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes in ninety-eight.)

- 1 -

"How was school today, bärchen?"

"Okay, mamma."

Moshe sat down at the table as his mother poured him a tall glass of milk.

"How are you feeling? Should we check your sugar, honigbienchen?" she asked, setting the glass on the table in front of him.

While the Silverstein’s tended to speak German at home, as Moshe grew older, English was being used more often.

I don't know.

Well, you look pale. And I don't care if Doctor Kazcynski says that you’re not to eat fruit. You're going to have a banana. It'll put the colour back in your face.

She thrust one at him and he took it.

"Father will be home late tonight. Herr Stockton is making him stay late again. That man works your father too hard. Much too hard, she commented, returning to pressing dough into a pie pan. Those English. They have no concept of family. The importance of eating supper together - Moshe?"

"Yes, mamma."

Are you listening to me?

Moshe looked at his mother. There was flour on her apron and her hair was tied back with a strip of purple fabric.

"Yes, mamma. Father is working late. You don't like Herr Stockton. I know, mamma."

Missus Silverstein nodded affirmatively. Good. A boy your age should always listen to his mother.

"Yes, mamma."

How many times have I told Moshe, class? How many times have I told Moshe that three is only divisible by itself? What's this one-and-a-half nonsense? he asked to laughter.

Red-faced, the boy lowered his eyes and stared at the scribbles on his desk.

Go back to Germany, Jew boy!

The Nazis missed you!

Mister Silverstein? Are you listening?

The boy looked up at Mr. Elliott, his math teacher.

Yes, Sir.

Good. Boys like you need to listen. Now then class, turn to page fifty four. We're doing long division for the remainder of the period. Moshe, I want you to lead us in the reading.

Run home to your mama, Jew boy! Peter Carlson yelled after him. We'll get you tomorrow!

Panting and out of breath, Moshe pounded up the alleyway until he reached the Everton Arms. He fumbled for the key around his neck and once inside, raced upstairs to the Silverstein's third floor apartment.

Moshe? Marthe Silverstein asked, a look of concern etched on her face. What's the matter? Why are you running like there's a herd of elephants behind you?

"It's nothing, mamma," the boy replied, closing the door quietly behind him and letting his bag drop to the floor.

Are the boys at school bothering you again?

"No, mamma."

Are you sure? You don't look very happy.

"I'm fine, mamma."

"Okay, bärchen."

Jew boy! Jew boy!

Peter Carlson's fist slammed into Moshe's face and Moshe felt his nose shatter.

Jew boy! Jew boy! the crowd continued to taunt.

Come on! Fight me, Jew boy! What? Too afraid?

Moshe picked himself slowly up off the ground.

Wham.

He hit the ground again.

Come on! Get up! Fight me!

Moshe figured it best to lie still as he watched the throng of students assembled in the courtyard point, laugh, and spit.

Friedrich -

No, Marthe. That's it. I'm going down to that school first thing in the morning and demanding that no-good, WASP principal answer for this.

No, Friedrich. Have you forgotten what happened last time?

When? What last time?

Friedrich Silverstein was still dressed in his janitor's uniform, his brown eyes angry and tired looking.

Last time I spoke to the school. When those boys sprayed our Moshe with ketchup.

"You spoke to Herr Davidson?"

"No. I spoke to the vice principal. Frau Andrews."

And?

Friedrich's face was crimson now and beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

Did she punish the boys that did it?

Moshe, listening to his parents' conversation from his bedroom, knew the answer. He'd been called into Mrs. Andrew's office. Made to admit to being a liar. Told that if he became a habitual tattle-tale, he'd be suspended, or worse, expelled. Moshe hadn't breathed a word about