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wearing
     boots with big heels, so especially to the children, I must have appeared very tall. I think I have on sunglasses, too.”
    “Big diamond earring?”
    “No, no diamond earring.” His smile was soft. “They wear on one ear a down payment for apartment in Israel.”
    “No justice in this world.”
    “That is true. But at least they entertain.” He looked at me. “Where was I?”
    “You’re tall and have sunglasses on.”
    “Ah, yes.” He broke into a grin. “So I hear my name, Koby, and I turn around. It is this boy, maybe twelve—bald from chemotherapy.
     He has an eye patch, probably lost an eye from his disease, so maybe he doesn’t see so good. And this is when the Lakers were
     doing their three champions … third champion …” He made a face. “What is the noun?”
    “Championship.”
    “Yes, third championship, so everyone is thinking basketball.” He led me to the bank of elevators. “You want the basement.”
    I punched the down button.
    “So I hear my name, look at the little boy, and smile.” He chuckled. “In thirty seconds, I have twenty children wanting my
     autograph. My one time with fame.”
    “Were the kids disappointed when they found out you were the wrong Koby?”
    He let out a soft laugh. “No one say a word! Everybody on staff—doctors, nurses, orderlies, techs—they all know
exactly
what is going on. Plus, Oncology often get celebrities visiting the kids.” He raised his eyebrows. “This little boy … he
     just saw what he wanted, and the rest of the kids are also willing to believe. I sign a bad handwriting starting with a
K
and they were happy. Absolutely thrilled.”
    The elevator dinged.
    Abruptly, his expression turned pensive. “Such sick children, Cindy. So weak … knocked out. It’s all so unfair.”
    The doors opened.
    He shrugged himself out of it. “If I can bring a bit of joy to them, I say, why not?”

4
    K oby carried the coffee as we walked to an orange plastic table sided by four blue molded chairs. Because of the late hour, the kitchen was closed,
     but there were still some prepackaged cold sandwiches—slices of something pink covered by wilted green stuff—for the truly
     famished. Drinks were also available. We sat across from one another. He had taken off his head covering, exposing a close
     cut of tight black curls.
    “When I came to America from Israel, I was lucky because I came with a skill.” Large, thin fingers wrapped around a paper
     cup. “Otherwise I end up taking parking tickets at the booths at LAX.”
    I nodded.
    He sipped black coffee, then said, “You see, many of the ticket takers at the airport are Ethiopian.”
    “Oh.”
    “So I was making a joke.” A pause with a raise of an eyebrow. “Not so good one.”
    I felt myself smiling and quashed it by drinking my coffee. It was very acrid. “So how long have you lived here … in the U.S.?”
    “Eight years. First I moved from Ethiopia to Israel in 1983 before Operation Moses. I was eleven. Things were very bad for
     my people after Haile Selassie was deposed. Ethiopia became Marxist country and not friendly to Beta Yisrael. They outlaw
     our practices. Sometimes they torture our elders. Then came the drought. My mother died shortly after childbirth with my sister.
     Then we begin our trek through the Sudan. By then, we were all sick with starvation. I lost another younger sister, but four
     of us siblings survived—my two older brothers, Yaphet and Yoseph, my younger sister, Naomi, and me. In Ethiopia, my father
     was very respected
qes
—a priest. He knew
Orit,
of course, which is our Torah, but that is in Geez or Amharic. But my father also knew Hebrew
Chu-mash,
and this is very, very unusual. He only knew because his grandfather was Yemenite Jew who came to Ethiopia in 1900 and brought
     with him Hebrew books including
Chumash.
So I have a little
Mizrachi
in my blood. My father tells me it is from my great-grandfather where I get my light eyes.”
    “I