Now the knot of schmoozers split, some gathering in close to admire the shtreimel, some splintering into their own conversations or drifting off into the day.

But Yehuda Leib was frozen where he sat. His heart was pounding. He did not care to be stared at—he who was so often blamed for broken or missing things, who was no sooner seen than suspected.

Why had they all stared at him?

What did they all know that he didn’t?

The morning was not shaping up well.

And this is why—even more than was normally the case—Yehuda Leib found himself growing angrier and angrier at Issur Frumkin.

Issur was the son of Moshe Dovid the butcher and he was the only other boy in Tupik of Yehuda Leib’s age. This inevitably invited comparison, and not to Yehuda Leib’s advantage: Yehuda Leib was scrappy and small; Issur was tall and broad. Yehuda Leib was dirty, poor, always in trouble; Issur was none of these things. Because his father was prosperous, Issur’s hours were rarely occupied with work, and he was free to sit in the study hall reading holy texts; Yehuda Leib had to occupy his hours finding food to eat.

But what made Yehuda Leib jealous was neither the comfort nor the esteem belonging to Issur Frumkin. It was something altogether simpler:

Issur had a father and he didn’t.

And, to make matters worse, Issur had two very different faces. The first, which he always wore in his father’s presence, was deferential, humble—the picture of Reb Frumkin’s expectation. The second, which he had a habit of turning on Yehuda Leib when others—particularly parents—were not around, was bratty, sneering, and superior.

And there he was now, standing in the synagogue door, doting cloyingly on his father, trying on his new hat. It was far too big on him, of course, and it slipped around and made him look even more foolish than he did in the first place.

But still, Issur’s father smiled and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder as if there were nothing his son could do wrong.

No one ever touched Yehuda Leib like that.

Now Issur was asking to keep the hat with him at the study hall, and his father answered with the fond admonition that it was new and expensive, and he must be very careful.

The little fire in Yehuda Leib’s chest was picking up heat.

By the time Yehuda Leib looked back up, nearly everyone was gone—Moshe Dovid off to his butchery, the rabbi off to his breakfast. But Issur was crossing the road toward Yehuda Leib now, his feet kneading through the well-turned mud.