The Long Run Page 17

  “Do not look at him, boys,” he shouts. “Ignore him. He does not exist. He is a very bad boy. A thief. And thieves must be punished.”

  As Wilson, who weighs twice as much as Brookes, approaches the exit, Brother Mansfield orders Brookes to step forward. Littlejohn walks into him, knocking him to the floor. Kavanagh, rather than step on Brookes, hops over him.

  “Do not hop, Kavanagh. Walk on him. He does not exist. It is his business to get out of your way. Not the other way around. Remember, he is being shunned. He does not exist.” The next boy, O’Connor, walks on Brookes’s leg as he squirms along the floor, moving out of the path of the steady stream of boys.

  “Well done, O’Connor. That’s the stuff. Extra canteen privileges for you. Carry on, boys. Do not look at him. Shun him. He does not exist until the end of the month. Until the end of the month, Mr. Brookes is invisible.”

  As I walk by, I sneak a glance. Brookes sits on the floor with his head on his raised knees, crying.

  “That’s a taste of what we’re in for if they find out about the wine,” Ryan whispers on the way out.

  “Or the marathon,” Murphy adds.

  “Shuddup!” Blackie says.

  Blackie gets really upset when anyone is shunned. So does Father Cross. Oberstein hates shunning. “By mercy and truth and fear of the Lord is iniquity purged,” Oberstein says when anyone is shunned. Oberstein seems to have a Jewish saying for almost everything these days. Blackie has taken to calling him Rabbi. We learned in religion class the other day that it means “teacher.” Oberstein has really started taking his Jewish roots seriously. He’s reading all kinds of Jewish stuff. He’s a library prefect, so he gets to order books occasionally. He ordered The Young People’s Jewish Encyclopedia, and he keeps it under his bed and reads it all the time. He also has books about the Second World War, the Holocaust, Auschwitz and Dresden and Bergen-Belsen, the German concentration camps, which he reads a lot because his grandfather was at Auschwitz.

  “Hitler murdered six million Jews,” he reads from the big encyclopedia. “Just imagine—that’s almost half of Canada. He tried to kill every one of us. He tried to kill us all.” He looks downcast and sad as his silky hair falls in front of his eyes, which are hazy with the horror of history. And you feel sad just looking at him. He purses his lips, blinking a tear, the way he did the day when Brookes was shunned. He closes the big book and flops into a chair, twisting his arms tight around himself as if constricting into a knot. His chubby face is the soundboard of silence. After a long time he says, “They’ve booted us out of everywhere. We were booted out of Spain and Portugal in 1497. That’s when Cabot discovered Newfoundland. Maybe we came here. We wound up wandering everywhere. That’s why there’s the expression Wandering Jew and Wandering Gypsy. The gypsies were booted out of everywhere too. Hitler killed off a lot of gypsies in his concentration camps too. Somehow we wound up in Germany in the 1700s and began speaking German instead of Hebrew. When we were thrown out of Germany, we were scattered all over Europe. We kept the German language. But we wrote it in Hebrew characters. It’s neat. It’s called transliteration. It gave us a new language. Yiddish, which is German written in Hebrew. That’s so amazing.” His face lights up, he is so proud of what his people have done.

  And he’s really taking prayer seriously. “The world exists for the sake of three things, and three things only,” he says, “charity, study of Torah, and prayer.” He says this matter-of-factly, the way you’d say the Mainline bus will take you to Victoria Park via Elizabeth Avenue and Water Street. And he’s forever quoting from the Old Testament: “Whatsoever is lofty shall bow down before thee . . .” His favorite when he is angry: “The Lord shine His face upon you and be gracious to you. The Lord turn His face toward you and give you peace.”

  He prays like crazy, about everything. Before meals, before bed, before study hall. He has a Popsicle, he says a prayer. Different prayers for different occasions. Before eating, he quotes David, before a game of frozen tag, Jeremiah, before study hall, Isaiah or Job. He has prayers of thanks and prayers for good luck and bad. And before every night run he places his hands upon Blackie’s head, pressing his afro ever so gently—like it’s a soft sponge—and prays, “And now I’ll speak as the Lord spoke out of the burning bush on Mount Sinai. Let my words enter your hearts. Give them wings, Lord, that they may fly.”

  In a weird way, Oberstein’s prayers seem more meaningful, more real, than the hurried litanies that pass for prayers during Mass and rosary and Benediction at chapel. Something special happens when Oberstein prays. I don’t know what it is. But we all feel it. Maybe his getting religious is wearing off on us.

  We were at the Bat Cave last Saturday, and Blackie asked Oberstein to tell us a story, and Oberstein started talking about creation. It wasn’t really a story. It was kinda dull. It was the Jewish idea of creation, which he’d just read about. He was really excited telling us about it.

  “Since God is all—everything—and He is everywhere, omnipresent and omnipotent, as it says in our catechism, he had to create a space that didn’t exist in order to make something different from Himself . . . A big, special, empty space! What the Book of Genesis calls the void. It’s like clearing off your desk in between periods. To get ready for the next class.”

  Blackie looked at me and shrugged.

  “It’s simple,” Oberstein continued, “like cutting a circle in a piece of paper and taking that white circle and cutting it into a million tiny pieces and dropping them back into the hole. Dontcha get it?”

  Blackie slouched in his chair and yawned.

  “Sounds like Alice in Wonderland,” I said, having just finished the comic.

  “It is!” Oberstein shouted. “It’s like we learned in science about the stars. A star collapses in on itself. That’s what God did. Only he blew back some of himself. What the Bible calls light, into the void.”

  “Come off it, Oberstein,” I said. “We don’t know for certain that’s what happened.”

  “We don’t know for certain that’s what happened,” he mimics sarcastically. He rolls his eyes mockingly and sneers. “Maybe it’s not scientific, but what’s amazing is that the Jewish rabbis thought all about this thousands of years ago. Thousands of years, Carmichael.”

  Blackie yawned and closed his eyes.

  “It’s so simple. An idiot could understand. God created the world by stepping back from himself and making a void and then pouring himself into the darkness.

  I looked at Blackie, expecting a sarcastic comment, but he was asleep.

  “I dunno, Oberstein,” I said. “That sounds pretty crazy to me. It isn’t like the questions and answers in our catechism. It’s more like Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone.”

  He just laughed and said, “What can you expect from a Gentile?”

  And he’s taken to wearing a yarmulke. Father Cross made it for him out of black crepe. If he forgets to wear it, Bug always drawls, “Forget yer yam-ah-kah?” Once Oberstein lost it and paid a crier to announce a canteen reward if anyone found it. And it worked. Brother McCann calls it his beanie. “Take that beanie off in class, Oberstein,” McCann says.

  He’s learning an awful lot about the Talmud. There’s all kinds of stuff about it in the Encyclopedia. The Talmud has really big pages, and in a little square in the corner of the page is the original Talmud. There’s an L-shaped margin, and all around this square are comments written by different people. Really smart Jewish guys. It’s a really important book. It has been passed down through the ages and discussed to death. Oberstein says he wishes there was a synagogue, that’s a Jewish church, so he could go there and talk Talmud with the rabbis. There are no modern comments on the Talmud. The comments stopped in the olden days, the Middle Ages. It sounds like a wonderful book. Oberstein would love to get his hands on a copy. It contains hundreds of questions on lots of topics, even meaningless stuff. And it has really wise sayings, like “Better blind of eye than blind of heart.” But the Talmud has never been
completely translated, which is strange for such an important book. Oberstein was really surprised to find out that it hasn’t been fully translated. He’s trying to find the address of a rabbi, so he can write a letter asking why. He says he’d love to meet a rabbi and talk Talmud.

  “I’d love to add a question or two,” he says.

  “Like what, Oberstein?” I say. “You’re just a kid. What could you possibly add to the Jewish holy book?”

  “Well, let’s talk Talmud. For one thing, it says we should not work on the Sabbath, the day of rest. I would like to know if playing frozen tag or going fishing is considered work. And if it is, what if I got you to hold my fishing pole, would that be the same as me working?”

  “Would I bait the hook?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would I cast the line?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would I reel in the fish when we caught one?”

  “’Course,” Oberstein says, “but it would be my fish.”

  “Then I don’t know why it would be considered work for you if I’m doing the baiting and casting and reeling in the fish when we catch one.”

  But Oberstein says it’s not that easy. That’s why his people have the Talmud. He says it’s a question of ethics.

  “What’s ethics?” I ask.

  “Right and wrong,” Oberstein says. “Is it right for a person to pay another person to do something wrong for him? Would it be right for you to hire Murphy to steal something from Ryan for you, for example?”

  “No. That wouldn’t be right. That would be wrong. It would definitely be wrong.”

  “Then why would it be right for you to work my fishing pole to catch my fish and for me not to consider it working on the Sabbath? Work was done. A fish was caught.”

  “Because I was working the pole, Oberstein. Not you . . .”

  “But it was my pole and my fish,” Oberstein says. “I would gain from your work the same as if I had done the work. Which would make it my work, wouldn’t it?”

  It doesn’t matter what I say, Oberstein makes minced meat of my words. I think I am being very logical, and wham, he lowers the boom. He starts arguing like he’s been writing commentaries for the Talmud down through the centuries. So I give up and say, “Oberstein, you’re right. I might be holding the pole, and I might be catching the fish, but you’re getting the reward, which is why we work for the fish in the first place. So I agree. It would be considered work.” Then Oberstein pushes back his little black yarmulke and says, “Not necessarily.” And he begins with the opposite argument.

  It’s nerve-wracking. You can’t win for losing when Oberstein gets into one of his Talmud moods.

  It’s a cold morning as we wait for Blackie out by the incinerator, longing to fire it up. We’re like breathing dragons. The air is so cold you can reach out and touch the next guy’s breath. Soon we will be running through snow-covered fields. The sun is about an hour from rising, and the feeling of first light is a force that draws us together. Murphy lights a cigarette and passes it around. We all take a puff even though Blackie has forbidden smoking during training. There is little difference between the cigarette smoke and our breathing out the morning air. Murphy passes around a blob of Vaseline he has stolen from the infirmary. We all scoop a few fingers full and rub it on the insides of our thighs to prevent chafing. We huddle together smoking as Ryan cracks a few jokes. He’s in a good mood, which is rare for him at this hour. Perhaps it’s his new canvas sneakers. Blackie appears in the distance, a shadow swimming toward us, waving his arms, telling us the coast is clear. Murphy flicks the cigarette into the incinerator, and we begin the morning running ritual. As we break into our groups, Blackie hands Brookes a bit of hardtack. Everyone’s being extra nice to Brookes now that he’s being shunned.

  Shorty Richardson takes out the coil of rope, and we position ourselves for stringing. Blackie takes a flashlight and the lead. We begin lurching along, eyes intent upon the worn path, searching for holes or other obstacles beneath the light dusting of snow.

  The silence is broken by the sound of our feet moving on the frosty ground. Five minutes in, there are bird sounds off in the woods. I glance at Brookes. He grins that monkey grin of his. We share the same thought. We’d like to be in the woods now with a few precious stones. Brookes knows every rabbit hole and bird’s nest from the Mount to Sugar Loaf.

  The branches of the evergreens are spotted with powdery snow. We can feel our nostrils sticking as we run. The air is so cold it almost tastes bitter. We’re glad Blackie advised us to wear extra layers.

  Every face is intense, even though the race is nine months away. We’ve only just begun our training, but every face reads the same: This is it. The Comrades! I first learned about the Comrades from Oberstein when I heard him telling Blackie he read about it in a book he found in the library on marathon running. They were poring over a map, not an ordinary map, a geological map. They were really excited. Oberstein was telling Blackie that the marathon would make a perfect decoy. I looked the word “decoy” up in the dictionary right away. I know what it means, but I didn’t know what Oberstein meant. The Annual Comrades takes place every year at the same time in South Africa. Fifty-two miles. A double marathon. Oberstein said that South Africa is the only place in the world where it happens. Blackie decided we’d do a Comrades as soon as he heard about it.

  “If we train for two marathons, we’ll sure be in shape for one,” he said.

  We know that a special time has arrived. We feel it in our blood. A oneness. It’s in our veins, our hands, our eyes, this special feeling that has come over us all. It is knowing that we are preparing for a double marathon, the awareness of the Comrades, that makes us feel this way.

  As we run along Logy Bay Road, someone whispers that Blackie has scabbed a fresh loaf for when we return. Thinking of tearing into the fresh bread when we finish gives us new energy.

  “Do you think he’s scabbed a bit of butter?” Kavanagh asks.

  Ryan shrugs his shoulders.

  We’re panting hard as we reach Sugar Loaf, the halfway mark. There’s a thin burst of flame in the sky. We’re tired and not yet in shape, but we all think the same thing: How beautiful!

  “Jesus, look at that,” Ryan shouts, as we lie on our bellies and smash the thin layer of ice with our fists, greedily drinking from the pond. As each of us finishes, we stand and run on the spot while waiting for the rest.

  When he finishes gulping the water, Ryan asks Murphy about the hockey scores. Murphy has the only transistor radio in the Mount. It is a tiny thing that he stole from Burns’ Music Store. It has a cord running from it with a metal clip like a small clothesline pin that he attaches to the steel frame of his bed to get a station. He’s always up on the baseball and hockey scores.

  “Beliveau scored again last night.”

  “What about the Pocket?” Ryan asks, his breath coming in little puffs.

  “An assist.”

  “Boom Boom get one?” Blackie asks.

  “Two,” Murphy says. “First period and the last. Missed a hat trick.”

  “He’ll get over fifty this season. Dickie Moore play?”

  “Scored on a power play in the second.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “Plante getta shutout?” Brookes asks.

  “Mahovlich scored in the third. Four–one was the final score. Leafs dropped to fourth place.”

  Blackie hoots, pumping his fist like a champion.

  “Bower musta been pissed,” Ryan says.

  Shorty Richardson is the last one to finish drinking. There is more hockey chatter till he gets up. When he joins us, Blackie smiles and we start out again. I shiver as we run, letting thoughts of Shorty Richardson crossing the finish line at the St. John’s Royal Regatta Marathon drift through my mind. Halfway home, Cross jerks our lifeline. A rock pile peeks through the new layer of powdery snow. Ryan and I jump the obstacle. Too late for Brookes, who stumbles and falls. Anxiously, we backtrack and help him to his fee
t. He’s in pain, but he’s okay. Only a bruised knee. He makes a joke of his fall and runs harder than ever.

  It’s at times like this that we are no longer running alone. Our heart’s desire is one. We are brothers-in-arms, all at once together. Knowing that blood loyalty and teamwork will help us run to victory. Our shivering ceases as the great silhouette of the Mount appears in the distance. We think of getting back to the dorm and dividing up the fresh loaf and getting into our bunks under the warm covers for an hour or so before the ugly buzzer sounds for chapel.

  Canteen’s open for the feast of Saint Ray-field. Canteen’s open . . . Canteen’s open for Saint Ray-field . . . Canteen’s open . . . Canteen’s open . . .

  Canteen criers are racing through the halls during recess, screaming with delight. There’s always more criers than you can count when the canteen is open.

  I look at my Mickey and head for my locker to get my canteen card. The brother in charge of your dorm hands out canteen cards at the end of each month. I close my eyes and see the first canteen card I ever received, a sky-blue index card. Along the top, typed in black, a row of four quarters. On the bottom, two rows of five dimes each. Along the left side, eight nickels. Along the right, ten pennies. In the middle of the card, typed in black, is my name, and in brackets my number: Aiden Carmichael (291).

  A canteen card has a value of two dollars and fifty cents. Blue money, Oberstein calls it. You can use your card anytime the canteen is open. The brother on canteen duty will add up your bill and punch holes through the numbers on your card, totalling your purchase. The money has to last you the entire month. Needless to say, many cards are stolen, the name and number efficiently erased and replaced with another boy’s. There’s a rumour that Farrell, a member of the Dare Klub, counterfeits a few cards each month, but I don’t believe it. For one thing, the thick blue paper is unavailable. Canteen cards are as good as gold. Boys exchange IOUs for cigarettes, chore swapping, and even clothing and food. I remember Murphy giving Father Cross his entire canteen card one month for his black cowboy hat. I thought it was a pretty good deal. Everyone argued for days about who came out on top. Blackie controls the canteen card trade, as Oberstein calls it, especially since preparations for the marathon began.