The Burglar
and other stories
By Libby Lazewnik

It was Sunday night, so dinner was mostly Shabbos leftovers. I like just about everything Ma makes for Shabbos, only I like it a little less the second time around. Which was a good thing, because it was no problem eating quickly and then pushing aside my plate.

“May I be excused?” I mumbled as I got up.

“Already?” Ma said, surprised. “You haven’t had dessert.”

“I’m not so hungry, Ma. Maybe I’ll have it later.”

Ma looked like she wondered whether I was coming down with something. My father gazed across at me. “Have you got homework to do, Zevy?”

“Uh, a little.”

“It’s a good idea to get it done now, before you’re too tired.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said virtuously. Daddy nodded to indicate that I was excused.

Almost running in my relief, I escaped the dining room and took the stairs two at a time.

At the head of the stairs, I stopped to listen. There was a babble of voices from the dining room. So far, so good. I was alone on the upper floor. The girls’ room was right in front of me. I slipped inside.

In seconds, I was standing before the mirror. It took a minute for my eyes to focus on the photograph I wanted. All the pictures seemed to have shifted, or maybe that was only because I was nervous. I finally spotted the one I wanted, and carefully pried it out of its place in the mirror’s rim.

A noise reached my ears. It was the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs!

Quick as a flash, I pressed myself behind the door and listened. The footsteps paused at the head of the stairs, then moved off in the direction of the bathroom. A second later, I heard the bathroom door closing. Whew, that was close! Cracking open the door, I peeked outside. The coast was clear. I’d better make it back to my room before whoever it was came out of the bathroom and saw me. Sliding the picture into my pocket, I tiptoed down the hall to the room I share with my brother.

As I put the picture of Aviva and Rivky into my backpack to give to Sholom the next day, the photograph gave way to the image of a hot fudge sundae, piled high with clouds of whipped cream. I let the image linger deliciously. I’d earned every bite.

It wasn’t until dinner was over and the rest of the family was spreading throughout the house that I remembered something.

I hadn’t pushed all the neighboring pictures over, to hide the gap I’d made in taking the one I wanted.

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