If ever there was a situation of b’makom sh’ein anashim, hishtadel lihyos ish, I thought to myself, this is it
The cheder that Shimmy and Yitzi attended was situated on our sleepy, dead-end street, and all the other boys on the block attended this cheder as well, so they all knew each other and played together. But Shimmy and Yitzi had a special bond — it was always Shimmy and Yitzi, Yitzi and Shimmy.
One Monday afternoon, the quiet of our residential street was shattered by the wailing of sirens as ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks converged in front of the building where Yitzi lived. Curious to see what was going on, Shimmy hurried out onto our porch and called down to one of his friends below on the street to find out what the commotion was about.
“Something bad happened to Yitzi,” the friend called back up to him.
Shimmy raced downstairs and down the block, where a throng of kids had already congregated and were watching as paramedics moved a limp Yitzi onto a stretcher and into an ambulance.
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