by Howard Fast
FIVE
SHOMAKE’S MOTHER GIVES US EACH A HALF OF A ROLL, spread thick with butter. The butter is warm and soft and dripping, good on the white Italian bread, and we go out to the store to eat it. We sit on the bench. Behind the counter, Shomake’s father works.
He’s a strange man. Maybe he’s a little crazy; I don’t know, but he’s a strange man. You see, he never says anything. If he can speak English, nobody knows about it. Nobody even knows whether he can speak in his own tongue, and some say that he is deaf and dumb. But I don’t know, and I never could ask Shomake about it.
He sits and mends shoes. He’s a big man—even when he’s hunched over his awl, you can see how big he is, and how large and powerful his hands are. What hands they are! I think, if one hand were to grasp me about the waist, and squeeze and squeeze, why I, little Ishky, would be broken in two just like that. Each finger is a claw of steel, and the black hairs on the backs of his hands twist and curl like wires. He has a lot of hair, and his body is big and strong, and round as a barrel. But on his head the hair is gray; his face is gray, and his large wondering eyes are gray. That’s the sort of a man he is.
But I like to watch him as much as I like to watch animals at the zoo. He hammers and cuts. But doesn’t he think? If his wife strokes him all over his body, the way she stroked me, doesn’t he think? And what does he think of then?
We eat the bread, slowly, because it’s so good, licking some of the butter from the top; and sometimes Shomake’s father glances at us out of his big gray eyes. Yet he doesn’t seem to see us. How is that?
Even more slowly than I do, Shomake eats his bread, and he doesn’t seem to notice his father at all. When his bread is all gone, he stretches his arms, yawning, and with the same motion his father’s body quivers.
“Whaddya wanna do, Ishky?”
Ishky looked at him. He might understand, or he might not. Well, nothing lost, anyway.
“Y’know, behin’ my house, dun yard?”
“Yeah?”
“Y’know duh fence?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, dere’s grass unner it.”
Ishky paused to let that sink in. This business of revealing the secret garden, the beauty and the power and the wonder of it, was becoming more than he had anticipated. How, exactly, could he put it to Shomake, so that Shomake would understand? He knew that behind the fence was the secret garden, but would Shomake believe him?
Ishky said, “Yuh know what a gaden is?”
“Yeah, wid flowers.”
“Yeah, like dat. It’s behin’ duh fence in my yard, oney dere ain’ nobody knows.”
“Dat’s funny. Howda you know?”
“I read in a book.”
“Whatcha read—about duh fence?”
“About duh gaden, an’ I can’ climb over duh fence.”
Rolling it over in his mind, Shomake nodded. That much was reasonable; for if the fence were high, nobody would know whether there was a garden behind it or not. And written in a book, it could not be anything but true. Shomake thought of the garden;—flowers, surely, and who knew what else? Fairies, perhaps, and any number of other things equally fascinating. He knew the fence, a high wooden fence. If it came to getting over the fence, no doubt they would find a way.
“Maybe,” he considered, “dey won’ led us in.”
“Maybe.”
“Is duh gaden empty?”
“Maybe.”
Then they went out in the street together, blinking like two owls in the strong sunshine. Then Ishky saw Marie and Ollie.
Marie stood near him; Ollie stood on the other side of the street. Marie just stood, staring at the gutter, but Ollie swaggered back and forth, never looking in Marie’s direction. Her long hair curled down to her shoulders, and Ishky wondered what they could find in the garden, when here, outside, Marie was so beautiful.
“C’mon,” Shomake urged.
“Awright.”
But he stood looking at Marie—and he knew, without seeing, that Ollie had stopped swaggering, and was looking at him. And Marie knew that he was looking at her; she glanced up to meet his eyes.
How beautiful her eyes were, softly blue, and liquid as water. Why did he want the secret garden, if not for beauty? Then, briefly, Ishky knew what he was to know on and off for many years, that beauty is the truth of the world. He felt that he became bigger and bigger as he looked at her. Inside of him, the words came with a rush, soft words and beautiful ones. “Marie, you are my heart and my desire. You see, I know. You are the world and the skies, too. I could go and die for you, bravely.”
“Whaddya lookin’ at?” she wanted to know.
“Nuttin’.”
“C’mon, Ishky,” Shomake said. “Ollie’s comin’.”
“Leddim come.”
Ishky knew that he was doomed. But if that’s the truth, why then it pays to die for the truth; and life was not much after all, just bickering and fighting. He thought, “I love you, Marie, I love you, I love you. Don’t you know that I love you, how I love you?”
“Lookit yer ass!”
Ollie came across the street. Aching inside of himself, he didn’t want to fight with Ishky any more than he did with Marie. But he couldn’t fight with Marie. Male and female do not strike one another. And Ishky wouldn’t fight—
“Leava alone, yuh dirdy sheeney,” Ollie yelled.
Ollie was taken off balance. Like a small dog gone mad, Ishky sprang at him, clawing and biting and spitting and kicking; and for a moment his tactics succeeded. Ollie went down with Ishky on top of him, and Ishky fastened his teeth in Ollie’s small freckled nose.
“Wow—yuh dirdy Jew basted!”
Marie danced about in excitement. No matter who won, it was for her. All the fury and wonder of the battle surged into her little head. She had beauty, and that could turn the world over. Would anything else make Ishky fight with Ollie? Let them fight, let them fight!
Let the world go round—men must fight for women. “Aye—lookit dem!” she yelled to Shomake.
If his violin had been broken, would it have felt what he was feeling? First there was terror inside of him, and he whispered to himself, “Shomake, run, run.” But he stood still, and then the terror was replaced with hot fury. What right—what right had Ollie, curse him for a little mick bastard, to do what he was doing to his friend Ishky? He wanted to fight; why didn’t he fight? He wanted to pile on top of Ollie; the two of them together could surely whip him. But he didn’t. He simply stood there, watching it. And then he began to sob. And then he could stand there no longer, and he ran down the block, sobbing as if the devil himself were behind him.
Marie screamed, “Run, run yuh dirdy wop! Killim, Ishky!” But she saw that Ishky would be beaten as he never was beaten before.
WHAT MADE me fight with Ollie? Did I think I would win? but I knew that I wouldn’t win, and I didn’t mind him calling me a dirty sheeney. My God, if I minded thinks like that, I would be fighting with Ollie all the time, and what would be the use of that?
Now I am sitting on the roof, all bruised and hurt. This is what happened.
I bit Ollie on the nose. When you are fighting with a king, you resort to anything, but I didn’t think of biting him until I found my teeth fastened over his nose. Then I found it was a good thing, so long as I didn’t let go. No matter how much Ollie hurt me, I had only to bite harder to hurt him as much, or more. I didn’t even feel his blows, or think of them very much. I only bit and bit, holding on to Ollie all the while. They were good tactics, while they lasted.
It ended like this. Something took me by the shoulder, heaving me up. As soon as I felt that, I knew that I had to let go, I knew that the battle was over for the time.
Ollie came at me like a raging maniac, but he stopped short, and both of us looked at the thing that was holding me.
She said in Yiddish, “Go and bury your head in muck, little infidel swine!”
My mother was a big woman, a mountain of a woman, and
all over as red as a beet. And with her rage, the scarlet color always increased. Now she looked like a beet, and her shape was the shape of a beet, too. She shook me and shook me, until my brains rattled and my eyes popped, and I whimpered from the pain of her shaking me and the hurt of Ollie’s blows.
Ollie crouched just short of her, eying her warily. He wasn’t afraid—still, he wasn’t prepared to do battle with a creature of her size.
“Go,” she screamed, “go, heathen, and find yourself a pile of manure!”
“Aw, go take a hot crap,” Ollie muttered.
“Go and consort with the devil, son of Edom,” she raged, all the while continuing to shake me. “Go, you with the mind and purpose of a fiend! Go from my sight!”
“Dirdy sheeney!”
“Names to call me—filth of the gentile!”
“G’wan, yuh fat louse!”
Lost entirely, she broke into English. “Vat you call me, doity rotter?”
“Yuh stinkin’ Jew!”
Free for a moment, I noticed Marie. Marie stood there, absorbed, her hands on her knees. Her yellow hair was all thrown about her head and shoulders, and her mouth was wide with wonder. But even then, in the few seconds, I noticed how beautiful she was. What was the use? I loved Marie. Nothing mattered; nothing could change that. I loved her, and I would never stop loving her, and that was the way it would be until the end of time. Then I ran.
I ran into the hall of our house, and I climbed up to the roof. It was a long way, but I had to be safe; I had to be where my mother would never think of looking for me. Where else could I go but up to the roof? If she found me, she would beat me, beat me long and unmercifully. I had to be safe.
In the hall, it was dark, with just the faint flares of gas to light the way. But out on the roof it was all sunshine with the delicious smell of hot, steaming tar. I blinked, swayed from side to side. How quiet and peaceful it wash I sit down in a corner, liking the way the soft tar takes hold of my pants, and I lean back against the wall. I am tired and hurt and bleeding in some places; I have just been fighting, and I wonder whether life will ever be anything but battles and fear from one day to another. But it will. Some day I’ll grow up, and in that other world, none of these things happen. Somehow, I know that.
As much as I hurt, I don’t think about it too long. Have I said before that hurt passes easily? Well, it does. The hot sun bites into my face, and soon I have stopped whimpering. I even smile a little. It was funny in a way, Ollie and my mother screaming at each other.
Now—now you hurt, but soon it’s over. When I grow up, I will have lots of money and marry Marie. (I love you, Marie.) Then she’ll love me.
And I begin to think of ways I can make Marie love me. There must be any number of ways for someone as clever as I. Maybe I doze a little in the hot sun, it’s so good and quiet up on the roof.
And Shomake?’ And the magic garden? I have forgotten them entirely.
SIX
NOW, HOW IS IT THAT I, ISHKY, HAD NEVER THOUGHT OF this before? Was there something about that morning, that day—that my dreams should all vanish then?
You see, I am on the roof, basking in the sun, healing the hurts I have just gathered in my fight with Ollie. What a fight that was! But I heal quickly, and curling in the sun like a big cat, I am all pleasure and happiness. That’s how it is with one, first battle and struggle, and the next moment ease and pleasure. Sometimes at night, with the gas turned very low, my mother sobs bitterly, rocking back and forth. “Oh, such a life,” she moans in Yiddish. “Oh, what a life for one to be thrust into! Why and what for? From the pains of labor to the dusk of death there is nothing but pain and horror. What for? What for?”
But I am not like that. Most of the time I am very happy living, and why shouldn’t I be, with all the good things in life? So how did this idea occur to me?
He sat on the roof in the sun, a bundle of not-too-good clothes, with his legs curled way up. He was a Very small boy, with thin legs and thin hands and large brown eyes and freckles, and he began to think again of the magic garden.
Whenever there was nothing else to think of, he could think of the magic garden. He could think of how it would be only a matter of time until he was large enough to climb over the fence, and then—why, the magic garden would be his. But might it not be too late then? One grew up, and if he were to rock back and forth like his mother, then—?
He made a face at the thought of his mother, she was so fat and ugly. He shouldn’t hate her; God would not like that. Up in the sun, maybe behind the sun, was God. God knew everything. God would disapprove, if he thought that his mother was ugly. Still, he would never be like his mother.
Downstairs in the yard, it was cool and gray, and the fence that closed in the magic garden cast a long shadow. But there was grass growing from beneath the fence, and that grass gave a faint, fascinating suggestion of what lay in the garden itself.
And now the thought struck him. The roof—what about the roof? But what a little fool he was, never to have thought of that before! Surely, it was plain enough—he had only to look over the back of the roof to see behind the fence, to gaze into the garden. And he had never thought of it before—
“Oh—wunnerful,” he whispered. “Dat’s what I shoulda done long ago.”
Rising to his feet, carefully, cautiously, he began to move, trembling a little, he was that excited.
Stalking like a red Indian, he approached the back of the roof, and he looked over. For a moment, he stared, and then he sank back to the roof, shaking, with short, dry sobs.
Because, in the garden, there was nothing but piles of rubbish.
SEVEN
SO YOU SEE HOW IT WAS WITH ME, THAT I WAS LEFT ALL alone on the roof, trying to make something out of nothing. I would never be happy again; how could I ever be happy again? How could I be sure that everything in life wouldn’t be like this, an illusion that would pass away as soon as you probed into it? Well, the secret garden was gone, Marie was gone; indeed, everything had been taken away from me, and anyway, what was the use of going on?
I heard my mother calling from the window. “Ishky—Ishky, vare are you?”
I tried to bury myself in the hot tar of the roof. So soon, I would have to go down and eat my lunch. I made little balls of the tar, and threw them away from me, watching the way they bounced, and finally stuck to the roof. And then in the middle of my crying, I managed to smile a little—because one of the pellets remained fastened to a clothesline where it had struck, just remained fastened like that. And here I was smiling again. Well, Ishky, you are a little fool, and that’s all there is to it.
But I kept on smiling. If the secret garden wasn’t behind our yard, then it was somewhere else. Certainly, it was somewhere else.
Someone was coming from the next roof. As soon as he was out of the glare of the sun, I recognized Thomas Edison. I don’t know why everyone calls him Thomas Edison, but he is really nothing to be afraid of. He’s big and kind of fat—but crazy. Everyone knows that he is crazy, that something is wrong inside of his head. He has a funny dull look on his face, his eyes popping, his mouth open, but I guess that’s not his fault, only a part of his being crazy; I guess anyone who is crazy looks a lot like that. Some people say that he is Ollie’s brother, but Ollie won’t admit it, and with micks you can’t be sure who is whose brother. I don’t mind him, and sometimes I feel very sorry for him—he not being able to dream and dream, the way I do.
Thomas Edison crossed three roofs, and then he saw Ishky. In the beginning, he, hadn’t known what drew him to the roofs. But on the roofs were sunlight and cool winds that blew in from the river, and there was freedom of a sort and nobody to laugh at him. He knew that more than anything else he hated to have people laugh at him.
When he saw Ishky, he halted, eying him warily. Ishky was Ishky, whom he remembered; Ishky was too small to beat him up, and if he had to, he could beat Ishky up. But he wouldn’t unless he had to. Why should he beat anyone up when the warm
sunshine and the cool air from the river made him feel so contented? Putting a leg over the wall between the roofs, he stared at Ishky, who stared back at him with a curious, even intentness.
“Whaddya lookin’ at?” Thomas Edison demanded.
“Nuttin’,.”
“Y’are so.”
“No I ain’.”
“Whaddya lookin’ den?”
“Jus lookin’.”
Hoisting himself over the wall, he let himself drop down on Ishky’s side; then, hands in pockets, he came swaggering toward Ishky, ready to fight or flee, not quite sure even now which he would prefer.
“Hey, Ishky.”
“Hullo.”
“Wanna match pennies?”
“Ain’ got none.”
“Betcha yuh got.”
“I swear I ain’,” Ishky protested.
“Yer a dirdy liar. Jews allus got money.”
“Awright, search me.”
Pocket after pocket Ishky turned inside out, to show only crumbs and little specks of dirt, and with each revelation Thomas Edison shook his head in disgust. “See,” Ishky said, shaking the crumbs onto the ground. “Dere ain’ nuttin’ at all, ’cept dirt.”
“Yeah.”
Thomas Edison sat down next to him, finding comradeship of a sort in the fact that Ishky had told the truth. It was nice to have someone who would tell you the truth, and of whom you weren’t afraid.
“I ain’ scareda yuh,” he told Ishky.
“Yeah.”
Ishky rolled another tar ball, throwing it at the clothesline. But it came nowhere near it. Well, that’s the way things were.
“Whaddya doin’?”
“Rollin’ tar balls.”
“Dere good tuh eat.”
“Yeah.”
They each rolled a tar ball and chewed on it. Ishky liked the way it stuck to his teeth and the warm sticky taste of it. When he spat, his spittle was hot and black.
“Tar’s good,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Good as gum.”