by Howard Fast
Here are Kipleg and Ollie, and I am instantly on the alert when I see them. I will have to hold on to what honor I have won. They will remind me of my mother. So my small head is full of things, of Marie, and of what to say to Kipleg and Ollie.
Together, grinning at some deep secret they held between them, Kipleg and Ollie came swaggering down the block, arm linked in arm. They saw Ishky, and they made for him.
“Hey, sheeney,” Kipleg called good naturedly.
Ollie was still bubbling inside. In the scene with Marie in the hall, there had been deep drama and deeper humor; and for some reason it struck him as woefully funny. He wanted to laugh, outright, to tell Ishky what he had done.
“Hullo,” Ishky nodded.
“Where’s yer mamma?”
“I don’ need her,” Ishky said indignantly.
“Yeah—”
“Yeah—”
“Yer yella of her.”
“I ain’.”
“You stink, sheeney.”
“Aw, leavim alone,” Ollie said.
“Some gang, wid him in it.”
“I ain’ yella,” Ishky said.
“Aincha?”
“Naw.”
“Well, why doncha show it, why doncha?”
“Awright.”
“Why doncha?”
“Awright. Geesus, gimme a chance, willya?”
“C’mon.”
DON’T ASK me how the idea came to me. I don’t know how it came to me. But put. yourself in my place, with the need of keeping face in front of Ollie and Kipleg. What would you have done? You see, I want you to know how things had been leading up to this, and later to that other thing, of which I will tell presently. But about this. I must explain to you why I did it, if I can explain. The reason is—I had to hold up my face in front of Ollie and Kipleg. Maybe you don’t understand that, but that’s the reason.
I thought of Shomake’s fiddle. I don’t know why I thought of Shomake’s fiddle all at once instead of anything else; but maybe it was because I could never forget the wonder of it. Even the secret garden was not as splendid as this beautiful fiddle.
And when I thought of it, I began to sweat all over. It’s very funny when you sweat like that—and know you are sweating. In little bubbles, the sweat crept out of my skin, and I felt it run down my cheeks.
(Forget, Ishky—and don’t tell them! Ollie doesn’t know, and Kipleg doesn’t know, so why do you have to tell them anything at all about it?)
How hot the sun is! How hot the ground is, under my feet. My eyes dart up and down the block, and I see the stiff, straight walls of the houses, baking under the sun. I am baking like that, and presently I will be cooked—entirely cooked.
Shomake’s fiddle—
“Geesus Christ,” Ollie says.
“Awright, awright, yuh jus’ wait fer me at duh corner. Jus’ wait dere.”
“Whaddya gonna do?” Kipleg wants to know.
“You’ll see.”
So I am about to do it. And why? Because I must impress Kipleg and Ollie. But what harm will come to the fiddle?
Over, across the street in Shomake’s store, it is dim and quiet. I steal in softly from the sunlight, wondering whether Shomake is there. If he is there, then the whole business is off. The old man sits behind the counter, hammering, and paring leather; he does not even look up. I knew he would not look up, and I steal past him into the dark back room.
Ah, what smells there are in this place of Shomake’s, what good Italian smells, what hot, meaty smells! It is quiet, dismal, and from outside, I hear the tap, tap, tap of the hammer. But I haven’t forgotten what I came for. I must hurry; back there, Ollie is waiting for me, and Kipleg is waiting.
There, in its case, I see the fiddle. Now I am trembling. I pick it up, hesitate, and then run from the store. But Shomake’s father does not even look up, sitting there with his great shaggy gray head bent over his awl.
I have the fiddle case clutched under my arm, and I run up to the corner. Ollie sees me.
“Geesus!” he gasps.
“Geesus,” Kipleg says.
And then we all three run like mad. We run east, down the slope to the river, where there are empty lots and trees. But now I am trembling and shivering. What kind of a fool have I been? What will happen to the fiddle now—?
The three of them, Ollie, Ishky, and Kipleg stopped in an empty lot. They made a circle, crouching with their hands on their knees, and they stared at the fiddle case as it lay on the ground between them.
“I’m gonna open it,” Kipleg said.
“Like hell yuh are. I’m gonna.”
“Lemme,” Ishky pleaded.
“Lay off it.”
“Awright, lemme now.”
“Geesus, yuh dumb sheeney basted!”
Ollie, awing the other two, knelt and opened the case. There inside, rich, warm, shining, and splendid, lay the fiddle. For a moment, all three of them stared fascinated at the rich red-and-brown wood. Then they all grabbed at it.
Ollie had the fiddle, Kipleg the bow. Ishky was struggling with Ollie for the fiddle, when Ollie pushed him in the face, sitting him abruptly upon the ground.
“On yer ass!”
“Lemme play, Ollie,” Kipleg screamed, “lemme play!”
“Me first.”
“Geesus, Ollie, jus’ lemme touch it once. I ain’ goin’ tuh run away wid it.”
“Gimme dat!”
“Geesus, Ollie—”
“Yuh gonna give it t’me?—”
“Awright, awright—”
“Lemme play, willya, Ollie?” Ishky pleaded.
“Gimme a chance, willya?”
Now with fiddle and bow, Ollie struck a pose. He made a mock bow, sweeping his handsome yellow head from side to side. Then he waved the bow through the air, like a wand; then he struck it to the fiddle, the strings screaming like a cat in pain. Making a face, he began to slide the bow back and forth; and then the pained expression upon his face turned to one of deep pleasure.
“Geesus,” Kipleg whispered.
“Dere. Maybe yuh tought I couldn’ play on duh thing?”
“Lemme,” Ishky pleaded.
“Awright, awright. But Kipleg comes next.”
“Geesus, who got duh fiddle?”
“Awright—nobody says yuh not gonna play.”
Grinning with delight, Ollie swayed from side to side, forcing sound out of the violin. And then Ishky and Kipleg could stand it no longer. Together, they made a grab at the fiddle; all three rolled over the ground, the fiddle clenched between them. For a moment, there was a mass of squirming, screaming bodies; then, one by one, they detached themselves.
The fiddle lay on the ground, crushed and splintered. The strings were all broken, the sides broken, and there was a great hole where someone had put his foot through the middle of it.
Ishky stared at it, stared and stared at the poor wreckage.
“Now look whatcha done,” Ollie said.
“Boy, yer dumb as hell,” Kipleg exploded. Whatcha wanna do dat fer?”
Ishky shook his head, staring at them dumbly. “But I din’—”
“Yuh did so.”
“We sawim, din’ we, Ollie. Geesus, Ishky!”
“No—no—no!”
“Geesus, whaddya so yella about? We ain’ gonna snitch onya, are we, Kipleg?”
“Shid, no.”
BUT WHAT difference does that make? There, all broken up on the ground, lay the fiddle. But it couldn’t be called a fiddle now, broken as it was.
What have I done? What will I say when they find me out? Then I will have to confess that I stole the fiddle, smashed it to pieces.
“But how c’n I bring it back?” I plead.
“Leddit go.”
“Sure. Geesus, Ishky—whaddya fraid of, anyway?”
“Aw—nuttin’.”
There is no use picking it up, for even I know that such a pile of broken wood can never be repaired. I let it lie where it is, and with Ollie and Kipleg I walk back
to the block.
They are still laughing and joking between themselves. Well, for them that’s all right; they never heard Shomake play on his fiddle. But what will I do? What will I do if Shomake asks me, about it? If he asks me where his fiddle is, what will I say?
“Listen, Ishky,” Ollie says to me, when we are back on the block, “from now on, yer in duh gang.”
“Yeah,” Kipleg says.
“We ain’ goin’ tuh snitch.”
“Yeah.”
But all I want now is to get away from them, and I am glad when they leave me alone on my stoop. Out of all grand dreams, nothing is left—nothing.
I am Ishky—but I have nothing now.
I sit in a bundle on my stoop, my head in my hands, and I hardly notice how it is down at the bottom of the block, where the sun is beginning to lower, where all the houses are taking on a rosy glow. Evening is coming.
Someone sits down next to me. Glancing sidewise, I see that it is Thomas Edison. He has some sorrow of his own, and I don’t mind him sitting next to me. It seems to me again, that there is some sort of a bond between us.
Warm stone—and warm night air. As the day passes, I am alone, full of wonder and doubt. What are you anyway, Ishky?
Dreams will not come back—
See how the sun sets—
TWENTY
EVENING COMES, AND THE SUN FADES. FROM WHERE I sit, from the edge of the house, a long shadow creeps out into the street; and I know that soon it will be dark.
Everyone has gone except Thomas Edison, and he sits next to me in silence, his large head drooping forward. He doesn’t speak to me, and I don’t speak to him; I don’t want to speak. I only want to sink into my misery, as deep as I can.
And then, my mother puts her head out of the window. “Ishky!”
Why doesn’t she leave me alone? Why must I bring my misery upstairs to her?
“Ishky!”
“Awright.”
“Right avay!”
“Awright.”
Why am I afraid to go upstairs? Maybe I am afraid to leave Thomas Edison, but I don’t know why that should be so.
From the shadows of the shoe repair place across the street, a small shadow detached itself, hesitated, and then moved over the gutter toward Ishky. Ishky watched it, with large sad brown eyes.
“Hey, Ishky!”
“Hullo, Shomake.”
“Hullo.”
Shomake sat down between Ishky and Thomas Edison. First he tightened the laces on his shoes. Then he stared straight ahead of him.
“Ishky?”
“Yeah?”
“Yuh still saw at me?”
“Naw—I ain’ saw. I wasn’t never saw atcha, Shomake.”
“I thought yuh was.”
“Naw—”
They sat in silence again, three small figures, hunched over, wise and young and old as the world. They sat, while the sun sank behind the houses, to bring evening again. The heat was passing. From either end of the block, cool breezes stole. Voices, one by one, broke into, the night, but the small figures paid no attention.
“Duh fiddle’s gone,” Shomake said finally.
Ishky looked at him. Thomas Edison said, “Whyya cryin’, Shomake?”
“I ain’.”
“Geesus,” Ishky whispered.
Shomake got to his feet. He looked at Ishky and then he looked at Thomas Edison, and then he stared down at his feet.
“Well …” he began.
“Listen, Shomake,” Ishky said eagerly, “we gotta gang, Ollie an’ Kipleg an’ me. If y’wanna, yuh c’n git intuh it. I’ll fix it.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure—an’ dat’ll be a lotta fun.”
“Yeah?” Sure.
“Awright.” He turned hesitantly, and it seemed to Ishky then that he was afraid to go back to the store. Very slowly, Shomake walked to the curb.
“Well—so long, Ishky—”
“So long, Shomake.”
“Seeya tumarra.”
“Yeah.”
“S’long.”
“So long.”
Shomake faded into the night, strange Shomake—
“Hey, Ishky,” Thomas Edison said.
“Yeah?”
“C’n I git intuh duh gang?”
“Yeah—I guess.”
“Geesus—”
They sat a while longer. A yellow cat came up to them, mewing, and it leaped into Thomas Edison’s arms. He held it close to him, stroking it, whispering to it. Then he dropped it to the sidewalk, and it darted away.
“Well …”
Ishky turned around to look at Thomas Edison, who was standing now, his head drooping forward farther than ever.
“Goin’ home?”
“Yeah.”
“Well—s’long.”
“So long.”
AND I AM alone again now. My mother calls, “Ishky! Ishky! Ishky! Come opstes!”
“Awright!”
If she knew, she would leave me alone. I have done an awful thing, and I don’t know why. Oh, if there were some reason, any reason, it would not be the way it is. But there is no reason. I took the fiddle, and I destroyed it.
If there is a God in heaven, what will he do to me? Or is this only the beginning? What is happening to me, Ishky?
I want to cry, the way Shomake was crying, but I can’t. No, I can’t cry.
I get up, and go into the hall. How dark—and dreary—and gloomy. Am I afraid of a dark hall now? Step by step, I go up. When I open the door, my mother folds her arms around me.
But no rest in that.
TWENTY-ONE
MORNING COMES, AND ALL THINGS ARE FORGOTTEN—AT least for the time. I stretch, yawn, and wonder about the day, about yesterday. All things happened yesterday, the gang, the garden, and the fiddle. Then I turn over, burying my face in the covers. Why must the fiddle come back to me? I want to forget, but what will Shomake say to me?
“Ishky—Ishky!”
Out of bed. I pull my clothes on, glancing anxiously about the room. Small and dirty, but through the window, the sun is shining in. So that makes up for other things.
I guess that I am a fool. Otherwise would I have destroyed Shomake’s fiddle? And now, this morning, I want to find Shomake. I don’t know what I want to say to him, but I want to talk to him, and maybe that will make it better.
“Ishky!”
“Awright, mama.”
I lace my shoes. Even if they are falling to pieces, they will do for another day. Anything will do for today, a day full of sunshine and gladness.
My father has already gone away, but when I come into the kitchen, my mother stands and looks at me. Since I fell off the roof the day before, it seems that my mother cannot see enough of me. There she stands, big, ugly, and smiles at me. Why can’t I love my mother as I should?
“Good morning, my heart,” she says to me in Yiddish.
“Hullo.”
“Is my man ready for his breakfast?”
“Yeah—”
“Come, then.”
I bolt my food. Indeed, it seems that I can never be out of the house quickly enough in the morning, when the sun is shining. Before I go, she holds me and kisses me.
“Take care of yourself.”
“Yeah.”
I go down the stairs, through the dim hall, and then I burst out into the street, stopping, suddenly, rolling myself in the warm sun. Nobody on the block; but who would be there this early? So I sit down on the stoop to bask in the sun.
Everything is fresh and clean that early in the morning. Do you know how that is? After I have sat there a while, I begin to feel full of the sun, and I stretch like a cat. I am sleepy again.
I watch Shomake’s store. When he comes out, I will call him over, and tell him about the garden. You see, about this garden: if it is not in one place, then it is in another. The garden is somewhere, and even if I don’t quite believe that, I will tell it to Shomake.
For Shomake, the night was long a
nd bitter, and often he woke, to stare into the darkness and whimper. Once, his mother woke, and heard him.
“Peace, my child,” she said in her warm Italian.
“I will never play again.”
“Now—what nonsense is that? As sure as I live, I will buy you another fiddle. Am I too poor for that?”
“No, I’ll never have another fiddle.”
“Foolish child, sleep.”
And she could hear him tossing and turning and twisting and whimpering.
“Child—child!”
“Yes—I am all right, never fear.”
“Are you trying to cheer your mother now? Only sleep, and tomorrow I will have another fiddle for you.”
“Yes.”
But the night was long, endless, dreary, and out of the darkness figures rose to torment him. Trembling, he crossed himself, drawing the blankets high over his head. Would sleep never come? And when sleep came, it brought dreams. And in his sleep, they took his fiddle from him. As often as he had another fiddle, it vanished.
He saw the gray light creep into the room. “Wonderful light,” he thought. Lying quietly, he saw his father rise, dress, go into the shop. Later, his mother called him.
“Ho, heart of hearts, do you see that the morning has come, after all?”
“Yes.”
“And you see how foolish the fears of the night are. God takes care of the night as well as the day.” Only, in her heart, she knew there was no money to buy him another fiddle.
“Mother—”
“Yes, my dear heart?”
“The new fiddle will be like the old one?”
“Yes, yes, my dear heart.”
“You will buy it for me? You are not deceiving me, mother mine?”
“Deceiving my child?” His mother laughed, and then she bent over the stove to hide her face.
“Fiddles, cost a lot?”
“Now are you one to worry about that—or is it my worry? Since when has my proud son taken it into his head to worry about money matters?”
He looked at her, and he managed to smile. Slowly, the smile spread over his small face, grew then, and presently they were both looking at each other, laughing.
“Eat, my child,” she smiled.
Outside, the sun calls to all. The sun was so beautiful, that for a while he sat in the shadowed shop, just looking at it. Then, hesitantly, he opened the door, stepped outside.