"Shame two innocent little boys, just because they have brown skin? That’s okay with you, and with everybody in the kehillah?”
“Your son is hanging around outside with the Africans,” Weissberger informed Yanky during the short break between Erev Shabbos Minchah and Maariv.
“Africans?” Yanky was bewildered and perturbed. These days, the streets were full of Sudanese immigrants looking for work, and their presence made him a little nervous, especially after hearing Bugi’s descriptions of their late-night activities. But the yeshivah didn’t employ any of them, so what was Weissberger talking about?
He went out to the courtyard of the beis medrash and looked around. No Sudanese in sight. Weissberger had said “your son.” Which of the three boys was it? Not Bentzi — he was home with Raizele. Eliyahu? Nachumi? Yanky was about to go back inside and ask Weissberger for clarification when his glance fell on Nachumi. He was standing near the fence, talking with two Ethiopian boys around his age. They were frum Jewish boys, with black yarmulkes on their heads and peyos grazing their cheeks. Yanky knew who they were; a few days ago he’d heard about the chareidi Ethiopian family that had moved into the neighborhood, and he’d seen the father, with a beard and peyos, in the Zichron Moishe shtiblach.
So what on earth was the problem? Yanky turned and walked back inside.
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