Finding Yossi, IX

             

               A ball came rolling to his feet.  Levy picked it up.  The dull green color of its surface reminded him of games played on the kibbutz.  Without thinking, he said to the boy who had retrieved it: “Here you go,” in Hebrew.

            “Thank you, sir.  I thought the ball would roll into the street,” the boy answered in Israeli Hebrew and then returned to his friends.  Zohar sat on the stoop’s lowest step and watched the boys play.  He watched for so long, his wife came out to retrieve him.

            “There you are,” she said, standing above him.  “What are you doing out here, daydreaming?  It’s so unlike you to dawdle, always so busy.”
            “Bluma,” Ori said, pointing confusedly. “Who is that boy?”

            “What boy, Levy, there are a dozen boys.”

            “The blond one, with the blue shirt.  He speaks Hebrew.”

            “Oh,” his wife said, tilting her head to the side. “That would be Yossi Greunboym.  But that wasn’t always his last name.”

            “What was his last name?”

            “Kushner,” she answered.  “His parents lived on a kibbutz and didn’t want him, so he moved out here with his grandparents.  It’s a sad story.  Come on Levy, your supper will get cold.”