CHAPTER TWENTY - NINE
AS SOON AS THE WORDS HAD ESCAPED HIS LIPS, HE regretted having used the derisive nickname from the alleyways of Krimsk. Itzik, however, was not at all offended, which made it all the more shameful. At the sound of his boyhood name, Itzik was so taken aback that he literally stopped in his tracks. The bucket continued its momentum, splashing almost half its contents before the handle in Itzik’s hand reined it in, but Itzik took no notice. His dull, simple face had been seized by an expression of childish joy usually reserved for red balloons or pony rides. Even then something vacuous remained around his eyes and mouth, for he was no child. The giant looked down at the man who had addressed him. Not recognizing him, Itzik became confused. A pained sadness reflecting years of abuse flashed across his brow; if he didn’t recognize the man, how could he have heard his name? He slowly stepped forward.
“Hello, Itzik,” he repeated very slowly and very warmly, reassuring the poor soul that he did indeed know him and that he had addressed him by his childhood nickname.
Heartened by the affectionate tone, Itzik approached him and leaned all the way over, practically touching his forehead to the top of the man’s head as he unsuccessfully scrutinized him.
“Who are you?” Itzik asked quietly, fear flickering in his voice.
“I’m Yechiel Katzman from Krimsk,” he answered without the slightest hesitation, pronouncing his own name before he was aware that he had remembered it.
Yechiel was surprised and fascinated, too, that his name had reappeared so spontaneously. Any real joy or sense of triumph, however, was outweighed by his concern for poor Itzik Dribble, who seemed so pathetic and painfully vulnerable. And, Yechiel had remembered his own name only because of Itzik. Without the pitiful Itzik, Yechiel would still be going around like a . . . like an idiot, he had thought earlier. It was poor Itzik who had saved him from that cruel, self-inflicted appellation.
“Shraga’s brother?” Itzik asked, his voice rising emotionally.
“Yes. Our father Nachman Leib had a leather shop off the lane to the creek.”
“You used to help Reb Gedaliah, the children’s teacher?” Itzik blinked his eyes in triumphant recall.
“Yes, that’s right. I used to substitute for Reb Gedaliah.”
Overcome with excitement, Itzik opened his mouth and began to wheeze in hoarse, heavy breaths. Drool formed on his lowered bottom lip and dribbled down his chin. Yechiel reached forward and took Itzik’s free hand, clasping it in both of his own. “It’s all right, Itzik. It’s all right. We’re together.”
A look of incomprehensible delight in his unfocused eyes, Itzik put down the bucket and took Yechiel’s small hand in his large ones. Itzik began to rock back and forth, emitting a low moaning sound. Yechiel coaxed him to a halt by holding Itzik’s hands steady and asking, “Itzik, how are you?”
Itzik stopped rocking but continued to moan.
“Sh-sh-sh,” Yechiel quieted him. “Yes, we’re both from Krimsk.”
Itzik smiled weakly at the mention of their hometown. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came on the train from Warsaw,” Yechiel explained, as if it were the most common of journeys. “We had mechanical troubles and had to stop here. I suppose they’ll be sending us on soon.”
“No, don’t go,” Itzik said, his eyes large with fright.
Yechiel couldn’t tell whether Itzik knew where the trains were going. The engine was backing the front of the train into the station; with a jolt that echoed through the cool night, it rejoined the carriages that had been behind the burned car.
“No, no!” Itzik cried in fright.
“I wish we could stay together,” Yechiel said sadly, in complete sincerity.
Fear still in his eyes, Itzik said, “Come, come with me!”
