What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank: Stories - Plot & Excerpts
The bell at the public school still rings through the weekend, and the bushes behind the lot where we played hockey still stand. The only difference is that the sharp screws and jagged edges of the jungle gym are gone, the playground stripped of all adventure, sissified and padded and covered with a snow of shredded tires. It was onto this lot that Zvi Blum, the littlest of the three Blum boys, stepped. During the week we played in the parking lot of our yeshiva, where slap shots sent gravel flying, but on Shabbos afternoons we ventured onto the fine, uncracked asphalt at the public school. The first to arrive for our game, Zvi wore his helmet with the metal face protector snapped in place. He had on his gloves, and held a stick in his hand. Zvi worked up a sweat playing a fantasy game while he waited for the rest of us to arrive. After a fake around an imaginary opponent, he found himself at a real and sudden halt. The boy we feared most stood before him. It was Greenheath’s local anti-Semite, with a row of friends beyond.
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