Not twelve years old and already a hardened criminal. He has squinting eyes and wrinkles
on his forehead, and his mouth never stops: he’s always licking his lips, biting the gold chain he wears around his neck, or puffing on his pen like a cigarette; squirming around like a caged tomcat. What do I know about him, though? Nothing. The only time he ever talked to me was when he sold me the passkey and said those dirty words. Even the teachers leave him alone. One day I might be proud of going to school with such a famous burglar.
But who will I be? What will I be? Maybe somewhere in this world a baby girl has just been born who will be my wife in twenty years. Maybe she’s in school already and she has no idea that I’m opening a savings account for us, she has a boyfriend and doesn’t realize it’s only a phase, that someday fate will bring us together. He smiles and shivers with anticipation, with secret joy, could it be that he’s already living his fate? Mama didn’t know anything about Papa either, she was busy raising her brothers and sisters in Jerusalem while he was slaving away in the taiga, in the ice, and little by little their paths converged, until suddenly, boom, like colliding stars, they knew they were made for each other.
Aron peeks around. Who can she be, he wonders. Pudgy Naomi Feingold stares straight at him. He blushes and quickly looks away. Sometimes he has the feeling that Naomi has a crush on him. Not that they ever talk in class, but once a year, on the school trip, she works up the courage to push her way into his crowd, the crowd with the good kids. He doesn’t like her, though: she hangs around them and yaks all day till everyone stops listening, that’s how she unwinds enough to show them who she really is—a girl who’s frightened of being hurt. And she never stops eating and making fun of herself for being fat, for being a party pooper and a real flat tire; she reminds him of Yochi in certain ways, they have the same kartofel nose, the same red creases in their thighs from wearing shorts. Maybe Naomi is in love with him. Who cares. It’s her sense of humor that annoys him, knowing as he does from Yochi that making fun of herself the way everybody liked —ha ha, Naomi Feingold, she’s a card—is her first and last line of retreat, and what does she get out of it: a broken heart, humiliation, hate. Again he peeks around and sees her gazing dreamily at Gil Kaplan; who cares, good riddance, but just the same he feels a little pang.
Or take Anat Fish. Anat-fish. If you dare call her Anat without the Fish, she glares at you as if you invaded her privacy. Anat Fish goes
steady with a “freshie” named Mickey Zik, who invited her camping in Eilat during school vacation, everybody’s whispering about it, but she hasn’t made up her mind yet. Aron peers around at her. She’s stacked. They say she needs a bra with three hooks in the back, and she wears “fuck me” stretch pants to high-school parties. She’s shameless, really. There she sits, nonchalantly, ignoring the notes that nitwit Avi Sasson keeps throwing her. Even Rivka Bar-Ilan gets flustered when she looks into those Egyptian eyes. Aron has noticed the way Rivka starts fiddling with her hair whenever Anat Fish is watching her, and then you can see that she was a little girl once too, sitting in a classroom just like this, and Aron rests his chin on his palm to contemplate Rivka Bar-Ilan, a homely girl with a big nose, she must have gotten teased about it, and there was probably some beautiful, coldhearted girl like Anat Fish in her class too; see how carefully she avoids Anat Fish’s eyes, it’s the same in every generation, but were any of the adults he knew like him, he wonders, and thinks of his father; but no.
Now their bottoms are wriggling on the hard seats, as they cross and uncross their legs. All eyes are fixed on Gil Kaplan’s pompadour, over which he signals the five, four, three. Varda Koppler and Koby
on his forehead, and his mouth never stops: he’s always licking his lips, biting the gold chain he wears around his neck, or puffing on his pen like a cigarette; squirming around like a caged tomcat. What do I know about him, though? Nothing. The only time he ever talked to me was when he sold me the passkey and said those dirty words. Even the teachers leave him alone. One day I might be proud of going to school with such a famous burglar.
But who will I be? What will I be? Maybe somewhere in this world a baby girl has just been born who will be my wife in twenty years. Maybe she’s in school already and she has no idea that I’m opening a savings account for us, she has a boyfriend and doesn’t realize it’s only a phase, that someday fate will bring us together. He smiles and shivers with anticipation, with secret joy, could it be that he’s already living his fate? Mama didn’t know anything about Papa either, she was busy raising her brothers and sisters in Jerusalem while he was slaving away in the taiga, in the ice, and little by little their paths converged, until suddenly, boom, like colliding stars, they knew they were made for each other.
Aron peeks around. Who can she be, he wonders. Pudgy Naomi Feingold stares straight at him. He blushes and quickly looks away. Sometimes he has the feeling that Naomi has a crush on him. Not that they ever talk in class, but once a year, on the school trip, she works up the courage to push her way into his crowd, the crowd with the good kids. He doesn’t like her, though: she hangs around them and yaks all day till everyone stops listening, that’s how she unwinds enough to show them who she really is—a girl who’s frightened of being hurt. And she never stops eating and making fun of herself for being fat, for being a party pooper and a real flat tire; she reminds him of Yochi in certain ways, they have the same kartofel nose, the same red creases in their thighs from wearing shorts. Maybe Naomi is in love with him. Who cares. It’s her sense of humor that annoys him, knowing as he does from Yochi that making fun of herself the way everybody liked —ha ha, Naomi Feingold, she’s a card—is her first and last line of retreat, and what does she get out of it: a broken heart, humiliation, hate. Again he peeks around and sees her gazing dreamily at Gil Kaplan; who cares, good riddance, but just the same he feels a little pang.
Or take Anat Fish. Anat-fish. If you dare call her Anat without the Fish, she glares at you as if you invaded her privacy. Anat Fish goes
steady with a “freshie” named Mickey Zik, who invited her camping in Eilat during school vacation, everybody’s whispering about it, but she hasn’t made up her mind yet. Aron peers around at her. She’s stacked. They say she needs a bra with three hooks in the back, and she wears “fuck me” stretch pants to high-school parties. She’s shameless, really. There she sits, nonchalantly, ignoring the notes that nitwit Avi Sasson keeps throwing her. Even Rivka Bar-Ilan gets flustered when she looks into those Egyptian eyes. Aron has noticed the way Rivka starts fiddling with her hair whenever Anat Fish is watching her, and then you can see that she was a little girl once too, sitting in a classroom just like this, and Aron rests his chin on his palm to contemplate Rivka Bar-Ilan, a homely girl with a big nose, she must have gotten teased about it, and there was probably some beautiful, coldhearted girl like Anat Fish in her class too; see how carefully she avoids Anat Fish’s eyes, it’s the same in every generation, but were any of the adults he knew like him, he wonders, and thinks of his father; but no.
Now their bottoms are wriggling on the hard seats, as they cross and uncross their legs. All eyes are fixed on Gil Kaplan’s pompadour, over which he signals the five, four, three. Varda Koppler and Koby
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