Yussel's Yamika

t was a grand yamika, or skullcap, that my younger brother, Yussel got for his ninth birthday. It was round, of course, like a standard yamika, but it was made of a rich black suede, not your common wool or linen. It's grandness did not end with the suede; it started there. For around the lower part, it had blue gemstones sown to it. The truly wonderful part was these shiny blue stones of aquamarine spelled out Yussel's name in Hebrew if you studied the pattern carefully. If you merely glanced at them, or did not know Hebrew, you admired the brilliant design anyway. It was a princely yamika, and I admired it when Yussel wore it for the first time, when we went to Simon's Candystore to spend Yussel's birthday money.

Simon's Candystore was a world of delights, containing multitudes of candy of different shapes and tastes from different parts of the world. There were sugar sticks, candy dots on white paper, little bottles of paraffin with sweet juice inside, wax lips, and other confections. If candy was not your longing, Simon had a soda fountain. Chocolate syrup, bananas, whipped cream, cherries, sprinkles, butterscotch, and home made ice cream were his raw materials. Banana splits, banana boats, vanilla floats, chocolate barges, and a huge bowl containing everything called 'the kitchen sink' were some of his manufactured products. And best of all, everything was certified kosher.

Being inside Simon's was like landing inside a child's fantasy land, even though you were still in Brooklyn, New York City. Directly outside, however, reality could be cruel, swift, and harsh. Simon's Candystore was located on the boundary between our Jewish neighborhood, and the dangerous area where the shfartzes, the black people, lived. In that world, men were broken, families disintegrated, and children ran wild in the streets. For that reason, I accompanied my younger brother Yussel when he wanted to go to Simon's. I was twelve and a good head taller than Yussel.

On this day they were there, standing on the sidewalk two stores down from Simon's. There were two of them, older boys - teenagers. We had seen them before and knew they were trouble. We walked by, Yussel and I, hoping they would ignore us.

"Lookit what we got here!" the taller one, Katisha, said upon noticing us. Katisha, though only 14, was already six feet tall, and strong. He was so dark his eyes and teeth were like beacons on his face. He had malicious eyes, and crooked teeth. He had a large gold cap covering one of his front teeth. He thought it looked stylish; we thought it looked garish.

"What the little one got on top his head, Kat man?" the smaller one, Kenya, asked. Kenya was thin, skinny even, and he wore a black bandanna around his hair. Kenya was smaller than Katisha, but still bigger than me. He was rumored to carry a weapon.

"Hey, Hymie, what you got on top yo' head?" Kenya asked directly now. He nodded to Katisha, who reached out to grab Yussel's yamika.

"Leave it alone!" Yussel protested, stepping back.

"I jus wan' to see it," Katisha said, moving closer.

"Leave him alone," I said, without much force. Yussel would be safe because he was small; I, however, was the right size for a beating. My heart was pounding so loud I could hear my pulse inside my ears.

"What you say?" Katisha asked, turning on me.

"I said, leave him alone," I repeated, standing between Yussel and Katisha.

"Yeah, right," Katisha said.

Katisha pushed me. I saw it coming, but was too surprised to react. The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the ground, looking up. From that angle, Katisha looked huge. I remained frozen on the ground, with no wish to further anger him.

"Now, who say what, and who say not?" Katisha asked, angry.

I didn't say anything.

"Hey, Kat Man, get me that beanie off the little one. Want to see how it look on me," Kenya said.

Katisha grabbed Yussel by the collar of his shirt, and lifted him up. With his other hand, he removed Yussel's new yamika and flung it carelessly over to Kenya. Yussel started crying.

"Give it back to me!" Yussel screamed.

Katisha flung Yussel down on top of me and laughed. I looked up, murder in my eyes.

"You got somethin' to say?" Katisha said, looking down at me.

I remained silent.

"Look at this thing, willya, Kat Man," Kenya said, studying the yamika. "Ever see anything so prettttttttty?!"

Kenya took off his bandanna. His kinky black hair was covered with shiny grease. It looked like someone spilled a jar of cooking oil on top of his head. He placed Yussel's beautiful new yamika on top of his slimy hair.

"NO!" Yussel screamed.

"How I look, Kat Man?" Kenya asked. "Like a kike?"

Katisha nodded his head in agreement..

There are names that cultivate hate. That is their power. Kike is such a word. When I hear the word, 'kike', my hands ball up into fists automatically. I was angry now, and forgot how hopeless the battle was.

"Here ... you want it back?" Kenya said, taking off Yussel's new yamika.

Kenya held that yamika in front of me, out of reach. He waited while I stood up. He waited while I reached out to take it. He smiled and dropped Yussel's yamika inches from my hand. I watched it float to the ground.

Kenya stepped on the yamika, then. He ground his sneakers into it, causing many of the blue stones to tear off. I looked down and saw his dirty shoe print on what once was beautiful suede material.

I hit Kenya then. I punched him with all my night in the center of his face. It felt good to bash his nose with my fist. It felt so good, I retaliated with hate words of my own.

"NIGGER! SHFARTZER NIGGER!" I spat out. The words expressed exactly what I was feeling.

I was punched on the side of the head by Katisha. The force of the blow knocked me down again.

"Who you callin' nigger?!" Katisha yelled.

"Why you kike m.f.!" Kenya screamed, holding his nose.

A knife appeared in Kenya's hand. He touched a button on the knife, and a blade clicked open.

"I'm gonna cut you for that!" Kenya promised.

One quick swipe from the knife, and the palm of my left hand had a deep gash in it as I put my hand in front of me to protect myself. Another swipe, and my left forearm was bleeding.

"Now the face," Kenya threatened. "You gonna always carry a reminder of ol' Kenya, you kike m.f.."

Kenya moved in, faked right, then left, then right again. I was fooled by each fake so that my face was wide open and unprotected after the last one. I waited for the sting of the blade.

Kenya did not see or hear Simon come out of his Candystore with his broom. It was almost closing time, and Simon liked to sweep the sidewalk in front of his store at the end of the day. Simon assessed the situation quickly, reared back with the broomstick, and hit Kenya on the hand that was holding the knife. The knife dropped in front of me.

"Leave them alone!" Simon ordered.

Kenya turned around, surprised and angry. Katisha turned around and grabbed the broom from Simon. Simon was an old man of 73. He moved slowly, and was bent over from arthritis of the spine. He was no match for the strength and reflexes of Katisha. Katisha broke the broom over his knee, and then began beating Simon with one half of the broomstick. Simon yelled, "HELP! POLICE! HELP" at the top of his lungs while he covered his head with his hands. People in upstairs apartments opened their windows to see what the commotion was. One lady had a phone in her hand.

What happened next occurred in a matter of seconds, yet seemed to me to be much longer. I was standing up. I was holding Kenya's knife in my right hand. My left hand was throbbing and blood dripped down my arm. I walked up behind Katisha, who was beating Simon with the broomstick. Simon was crying for help .

I yelled "STOP!"

Katisha wheeled around, startled. He turned so quick and with such force, he pivoted right into the blade of Kenya's knife. The knife went into the soft part of his stomach, all the way to the hilt. Katisha looked down at the knife sticking into him. I looked at the knife sticking into him. Kenya looked at the knife sticking into Katisha.

Katisha's expression went from anger, to surprise, to pain, to shock, and then to a blank stare. He slumped over and fell down, holding the knife. He balled up into a fetal position, shook violently, and then stopped moving.

I heard the Police sirens the same time as Kenya did. Kenya looked at his friend, looked at me, looked at Simon screaming "HELP! POLICE!", and he took flight. In a few seconds, he was across the street, down one the alleys, and out of sight.

Time speeded up then. A police car pulled up, red lights swirling. Yussel was standing next to me, holding my right hand tightly. A big black man in a blue uniform was asking me and Yussel and Simon questions. When I understood a question, I nodded yes or no, otherwise, I stared. An ambulance pulled up, with it's siren blaring and it's red lights swirling. A man in a white uniform wrapped gauze and bandages around my left hand and arm. Another man put Simon on a stretcher. The big policeman covered Katisha with a blanket.

The man in white was leading me to the ambulance, with Yussel holding my hand, when I saw something shine up at me from the sidewalk. I pulled away and ran over to it. I reached down and grabbed Yussel's yamika, and then put it in my pocket. I grabbed as many stones as I could from the ground before the man in the white uniform lifted me and Yussel up and put us in the ambulance.

The ambulance took us to a hospital where a nice black woman in a pink uniform and a white hat smiled and asked me and Yussel more questions. While we were answering questions, Momma and Totty, my father, rushed in. When they saw us, they kissed and hugged Yussel and me.

A man in a green uniform led me to a room with a bed, and he pulled curtains around me. He stuck me with a hypodermic needle in my hand, and then another needle higher up my arm. My arm grew heavy and numb. He stuck me with another needle, and I fell asleep. When I woke up, there was Totty, looking down at me.

"How do you feel?" Totty asked.

"My arm hurts." I answered.

I looked around, getting my bearings. Something was missing.

"Where is Yussel?!" I exclaimed.

"Your mother took him home. He was very scared."

"I'm sorry, Totty."

"Would you like to talk about it now?" Totty asked.

Before I could answer, the big black policeman that asked me questions outside Simon's Candystore walked in and interrupted our conversation. He said something to my father, and my father turned to me.

"The Policeman wants to know if you can identify the other boy. Can you?"

"Yes, Totty."

"He wants to bring him in now for you to see. Do you feel up to it?"

I wanted to say no. But I felt safe with my Totty there, so I said yes.

The policeman left the room, and then returned with Kenya. Kenya's hands were bound together with handcuffs. He looked smaller now, next to the big policeman. There was fear in Kenya's eyes.

"Is this the boy?" the policeman asked me.

Kenya looked down at the floor as I stared at him.

"Yes, sir," I answered.

"Who's knife was it, son?" the policeman asked me.

"His," I answered.

"That's a lie!" Kenya said, looking up at me with hate in his eyes. "I never had no knife."

"Quiet, you!" the policeman said, shaking Kenya.

"We have a witness says he saw this boy cut you with a knife. A switchblade knife. Is that true, son?" the policeman asked me.

"Yes, sir."

"Was that the same knife that killed his friend?"

Killed?! Did he say killed?

The policeman saw the expression on my face and looked at my father. "He didn't know the other boy died?" he asked.

My father nodded back, no.

"He killed him! That's what he did! Why am I the one with these handcuffs?" Kenya objected.

"I said, shut up, you!" the policeman ordered.

"He called us niggers. That's what he did. And that Jewish word, fatzie or something. You think it's all right for him to call us niggers?" Kenya shouted back. "You black, ain't you? You stand for that, bein' called nigger?!"

"Is that what started this?" the black policeman asked me. "Did you call him a nigger?"

"My son does not use such words, officer," Totty assured him.

"Liar! He called me a nigger. I heard him! You wasn't there. How do you know?" Kenya shouted back. "And then he punched me! Look at my nose. See how it's been bleedin'."

"He called me a kike, first," I said in my defense.

My father looked at me in shock. "You did use those words?!"

I said nothing.

"You are a Jew. A Jew should know better than that." My father shook his head and breathed a sigh of disgust. "Someone was killed over ... words ..." my father said, looking at the policeman, then Kenya, and then at me. "Is that what this was all about? Are you telling me someone died because of some stupid hate words?"

"And ... this," I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out Yussel's new yamika. It was torn and filthy and an ugly remnant of what it once was. I handed it to my father.

I pointed to Kenya, and my voice found new strength. "He did this."

"What is that,sir ?" the policeman asked.

"It was my youngest son's yamika. He got it as a present. Today was his birthday," Totty answered.

"It's a religious article, isn't it?" the policeman asked.

"Yes, officer," my Totty said, clearing his throat. " We wear it as a reminder that there is always someone above us." My father looked up, and whispered, "God."

"Sir, I don't mean to be disrepectful, but I don't think God would have been too happy today if he was lookin' down," the policeman said. "What do you think, son?" he asked Kenya.

"I ain't your son!" Kenya sneered.

The policeman stared at Kenya a long time before he spoke. "No, you're not my son," he said. "If you were, you wouldn't be hanging out on the streets, tormenting little Jewish boys who didn't mean you no harm. I woulda taught you better than that. You wouldn't be here, standing like a fool in handcuffs, with your best friend dead. No, you ain't my son. You're no man's son, and you're a sorry human being because of it."

Kenya stared at the black policeman. He was about to say something, and then he stopped. He tried to hide the tears in his eyes, but I saw them anyway.

"We'll continue this tomorrow," the policeman said, leading Kenya out of the room.

My father turned to me, and then shook his head from side to side with reproach. He made the sound, "Tsst" with his tongue, the sound fathers have been making for thousands of years when they were disappointed in their sons.

Now I was disappointed in him.

"You don't understand! You weren't there! It wasn't my fault!" I said bitterly.

"I don't understand? Kindala meinst, I understand. I know you were brave today and stood up for yourself and your brother and Simon. For that, I am very proud."

"You are, Totty?" I asked.

"Yes, of course," he said smiling at me now

Then he grew serious again. "And I know that a terrible accident happened today. It was an accident, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Totty."

"And now I also understand you used words that added nothing except more hate."

He held his hand up, halting my words of protest.

"Do you think this is the first time I have heard the word 'kike'?" he asked me. "How I dislike that word. I grew up hearing that word, just as you have."

Totty paused, and collected his thoughts. "I am a Jew," he continued, "and I am proud of being a Jew. Being a Jew is more than getting angry when someone calls you a kike. Being a Jew means you should be a light when there is darkness and hate."

I did not comprehend all that my Totty said, but I understood him perfectly when he hugged me and let me cry on his shoulder. It was on that day I learned the difference a father can make.

Read the review

Back to the archive

Return to.... SSC