by Robert Elmer

"Harami!" shouted the shopkeeper. "Thief!"

Dov didn’t know Arabic, but he understood English.

A thief? Where? He pulled back against the cool stone of an archway to watch the chase.

"Stop him!" The voice sounded closer, but Dov could not see through the sea of faces all around him.

To be sure, any thief would have a hard time getting away in this crowd. The narrow Old Jerusalem cobblestone alley overflowed with an elbow-to-elbow tide of people. Some dragged large wooden crosses on their backs. Others followed and watched.

Dov had heard Jerusalem was like this every Easter when Christians came to retrace the steps of Jesus Christ. And now that World War II war was over even more people had made the pilgrimage.

A sunburned, British man stumbled under the weight of a rough-cut, life-sized cross and fell at Dov’s feet.

Such a cross! Dov had never been so close to one. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up—even more than the shouting people that filled the ancient city.

Cross Check

"Watch it—" Dov started to say, as a dark-haired teen darted out of the crowd. The teen shoved something into Dov’s stomach, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Dov staggered backward before catching his balance.

What? He looked down in his hands to see a small olive wood cross inlaid with shiny white mother of pearl. It looked expensive. But the young man disappeared without a word.

"Harami!" The crowd parted to let someone else get through. Suddenly, Dov stood face-to-face with a dark-eyed, balding man. The man let loose a string of Arabic and snatched the cross from Dov’s hands.

"Wait," Dov tried to explain in broken English. "You don’t understand."

The man didn’t pay attention to Dov’s words. Instead he grasped him by the collar and held him up like a fish caught on a string.

"No, wait a minute," Dov gasped, but there was no getting away, not at the moment. The man dragged him through the crowd and dumped him on the floor of a small souvenir shop, a half block away.

Dov couldn’t understand a word of the man’s lecture. He didn’t need to. The language of an angry, wagging finger was clear.

"Harami," the man shouted again and again.

Dov tried to answer but nothing could stop the shopkeeper’s ranting and raving—until the older man glanced down at the Nazi death camp tattoo number on Dov’s forearm.

Almost by instinct Dov pulled his shirtsleeve down to his wrists. But it was too late. The shopkeeper had obviously seen the "465932" in a permanent dark tattoo. This badge of shame told the world Dov had survived a horror that had claimed many others.

"I didn’t do anything," Dov said again, louder.

"You’re a Jew," the man finally said, this time in English. Dov stayed on the floor.

"Yes."

"You’ll have to speak up," the man answered, in a voice that boomed through his shop. "I’m a little hard of hearing."

"I said yes!" Dov tried to match the man’s shout.

"Then you should know better than to wander along this part of the Via Dolorosa. Jews aren’t welcome on Arab streets anymore."

"Via Dolo . . ." The words did not roll off Dov’s tongue.

"Via Dolorosa," the man corrected him. "The Street of Sorrows, where Jesus walked with his cross."

"Street of Sorrows, of course." That was much easier to say than Dolorosa.

"So you’re new to the city?" the shopkeeper asked. "What’s your name, little thief? Little harami?"

"I’m not—" Dov swallowed hard.

He thought about trying to explain what had happened. But he wasn’t sure if the man would listen.

"And look at you," the man said to break the silence. Dov’s wild black hair hadn’t been cut for months, his ragged yellow shirt hung from his thin body and a rope tied around his waist held up oversized trousers. "What does your mother think of you roaming the streets, stealing from Farouk Ben-Jazzi’s shop, eh? Do you know what the Muslims do to the hands of thieves?"

Dov winced as Ben-Jazzi made a chopping motion with one hand into the other palm.

"Sir, I . . . I don’t know where my parents are. I came to find them after the war. We’re from Poland. My name is Dov Zalinski."

Farouk Ben-Jazzi studied him carefully. "At night, then, Mister Innocent Dov Zalinski, where do you stay?"

"I’ll find someplace."

"I see." The man held up his finger, as if an idea had come to him. "Now you sit here in the back room and don’t leave."

Cross Examination

Dov found a seat on a carved mahogany stool, wedged under a set of lopsided shelves loaded with brass candlesticks and olive wood carvings—camels and manger scenes, mostly. A few more crosses, just like the stolen one, hung on the wall. He could smell the rich, deep grain of wood, laced with centuries-old dust. And he heard shuffling in the front room behind a faded red curtain with gold tassels along the bottom.

He’s probably gone to sharpen his cleaver, Dov thought.

Then it occurred to Dov that this would be a good time to leave. The half-deaf Mr. Ben-Jazzi didn’t believe his story. He’d probably have him thrown in jail, or maybe worse.

No, Dov fingered another cross. If I run, he’ll think I really did it.

Dov peeked through the curtain at the front room to the street beyond. The shopkeeper had gone upstairs. No one stood in his way.

Run!

But he only stared as another group of cross-carrying Christians shuffled by on the Street of Sorrows. Some carried smaller crosses; maybe they’d bought them from Mr. Ben-Jazzi.

Dov wondered about those crosses. He had never seen so many. Finally he heard footsteps coming back down the stairs.

"You are still here," Mr. Ben-Jazzi paused for just a moment, a tray in his hands. "Good. That tells me something."

"Did you call the police?" Dov asked.

"The police? No." Mr. Ben-Jazzi chuckled for the first time. He set down the tray next to Dov on a small, low table. "Here. Something for you to eat. You are hungry?"

Dov’s eyes widened when he saw what Mr. Ben-Jazzi had brought. One bowl held dates and a few dried figs. Another carried strips of cold meat, and the third had a sort of curdled, lumpy white cheese he had never tasted before. It had a sour bite, but no matter. He had never inhaled better food in his life.

"Yes, go ahead, my little thief. The dates, as well." Mr. Ben-Jazzi crossed his arms and seemed to enjoy watching Dov finish every bite of the food. "But don’t eat the pits."

"What pits?" Dov asked as he swallowed the last one.

"Hmm. Well, no matter. They won’t hurt you. And neither will a little work."

He found a straw broom in the corner and held it up for Dov.

"You will sweep from the back to the front. Yes? And when you’re finished, I have more chores for you. Straightening shelves. Running errands. And a cot here in the back room to sleep on, until you find your family!"

Crossroads

Dov wasn’t quite sure what he was hearing. What kind of odd man would feed strangers and give them a place to stay?

"I-I don’t know."

"And you will keep the little cross, eh? An Easter gift from Mr. Ben-Jazzi."

Again Dov didn’t quite understand as the shopkeeper held out the thief’s cross for him to take. But when Mr. Ben-Jazzi smiled, his white teeth glimmered like the mother-of-pearl.

"The cross is for Jews, too," Mr. Ben-Jazzi continued. "It means forgiveness. God forgives all of us who believe."

"You know I didn’t steal—"

"Yes, I know. But have you never done anything wrong? Never?"

Of course, Dov thought. What kind of question is that?

Dov slowly held out his hand and took the gift—this cross for Jews. For him. Out on the Way of Sorrows, he saw more people in the strange parade had stopped and bowed to pray.

"I’ll keep it," Dov whispered, and then he remembered to speak up. "Oh, I mean—"

Mr. Ben-Jazzi held up his hand and smiled.

"Yes, yes, you keep." Farouk Ben-Jazzi smiled again. "Everybody needs a cross."

	Q: How do you spell mousetrap with only three letters? A: C-A-T. Ashley M., 12, Virginia Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe