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door.
    Please, God, don’t let them see, Yossi prayed.
    â€œPlenty enough for us, eh, Misha?” sneered another soldier. Short and round, he walked with a swagger that would have been comical, Yossi thought — if this had been a comical situation.
    â€œAnd you so kindly have done all the digging for us,” a skinny soldier said. His mate, a red-cheeked fellow with a thick brown moustache, joined him in a jeering laugh.
    The one called Misha rested a hand on the handle of his saber. He seemed to be the leader. “Start loading — into the cart.”
    The Jews stood there.
    â€œNow!”
    â€œBut sirs,” the Rebbe said, “we have worked hard, planting and weeding and tending these beets. They are ours.”
    â€œBe quiet, you fool!” Misha drew out his saber and held it high. It glistened in the sunlight. Gasping, the Jews took a step back. But Yossi saw that, despite his brave words and his raised weapon, Misha did not look directly at the Rebbe. He kept his eyes to the side. Yossi wondered why.
    But there was no time to wonder. “Now!” Misha roared again, as the other three soldiers pulled out their sabers. Without a word, the villagers began to load the remaining beets into the soldiers’ cart.
    Bitterly, Yossi dumped armful after armful into the cart. All that work, all that hope — for nothing. He longed to do something to stop the soldiers, to chase them away, to punish them. But what? He knew that if he so much as opened his mouth to protest, not only would he get killed, but worse, he would bring the wrath of the soldiers on the entire village.So he stood there, full of fury and fear, making powerless fists.
    Finally the barrel stood empty.
    â€œNext time,” Misha yelled, “no back talk, old man, or heads will roll!”
    The soldiers sheathed their sabers and rode away.
    All the villagers gathered around the Rebbe. Some were cursing. Many were weeping.
    â€œRebbe, Rebbe, they almost took your life!”
    â€œThose thieving rogues, may God punish them!”
    â€œWhat will we do? What will we do?”
    â€œCome, come,” said the Rebbe, “not a hair on my head is hurt. And at least they didn’t take the beets in the root cellar. We still have almost half the crop.”
    â€œAnd what will we do this winter when those are gone and our stomachs are growling?” Eli said bitterly.
    â€œWe’ll manage,” the Rebbe said. “As we always have.”
    A sob rang out, and Yossi recognized Mama’s cry. Papa put his arms around her and held her. Yossi saw that Miriam was crying, too.
    He felt like crying himself. It was terrible to feel so powerless. But he didn’t want to cry. He wanted to fight back, to teach the soldiers a lesson.
    Someday he would, Yossi vowed. He’d think of something, anything, to pay the soldiers back.

Chapter Five
    The Jews worked feverishly through that night and the next to gather in the harvest. Thankfully, the soldiers did not return, and the potatoes and turnips were safely hidden in the root cellar.
    Now, several days later, the villagers stood in a grassy patch beside the tumble-down hut that served as Braslav’s
schul
, or synagogue. Tonight was the start of
Sukkot
, the week-long Jewish harvest festival, when Jews gave thanks for the blessings of the land. They were building the
sukkah
, or house of branches, that symbolized the green, bountiful earth. Morning and evening, throughout Sukkot, they would gather under the shade of the sukkah, to pray and celebrate.
    First, Papa and Simon drove twelve slender poles into the ground, two rows of six facing each other. Then they attached cross pieces to make a grid.
    â€œNow we need willow branches for the walls,” Mama said. “Miriam, down you go to the stream bank and gather some. Long and leafy, mind.”
    Daniel sprang forward. “I’ll go with her,” he said. Miriam blushed. Daniel blushed.