The Children

by Howard Fast

  The warm breeze crossed him, bathed him inside of it. Spreading his body, like a newly awakened bird, he walked toward Ishky. He grinned.

  “Hey, Ishky!”

  “Hey, Shomake!”

  Grinning at each other, they came together, and together they walked over to the stoop, sat down. They stretched their legs, leaned back, looked into the sun for an instant, and then blinked their eyes. They were full of healthy animal pleasure. They stretched their arms, yawning.

  “Whatta day!”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hot.”

  “Yeah.”

  Then they heard someone scream, “Kip!”

  Kipleg was making his exit through the window of his house, and with the screams of his mother, the block woke up. Ishky and Shomake stared eagerly.

  “Watchim.”

  “Yeah.”

  Kipleg sprang out onto the fire escape, grabbed the ladder, and swung back and forth, like a monkey. His mother leaned out, screaming curses. Then Kipleg dropped to the stoop, to the street, and darted up the block.

  “Swine!” his mother screeched after him.

  Ishky looked at Shomake, grinned. Their hands crept together. No matter how you took it, life was good.

  “Wanna find duh gaden?” Shomake inquired.

  “Duh gaden?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ishky pursed up his lips, considered, and then nodded. “But it ain’ back dere,” he, explained, nodding at the house.

  “Somere else?”

  “Yeah.”

  They rose, and they began to walk. Down toward the river, they walked, toward the fields and the open lots.

  THERE IS no bitterness in my heart, no bitterness in Shomake’s heart. If he knew that I had destroyed his fiddle, would it be any different? I don’t know, but I know that I must be good to Shomake.

  I will make it up to him. You see, we understand each other. We understand about the garden. Maybe there isn’t any garden, and I think that we both know that. But nevertheless we go to find it. I am very close to Shomake now.

  But no more music—no more music— Carefully I steer him away from the lot where the remains of his broken fiddle lie. I don’t want him to see that. Perhaps if he saw it, I would have to tell him the truth.

  It is not too long a way to the fields, but now we walk slowly, and it takes us some time. In the first field, we sit down, talk to each other. What do we speak about? Well, must one find things to speak about on a warm summer day?

  We chase butterflies until we are out of breath, and then we fling ourselves full length upon the grass. We pull pieces of grass from the ground, draw them through our lips, and suck out the sweet juice. We are very happy.

  Then we go on, climbing down the cliffs until we are at the river. The river flows away into a mist, where we have never been, and we both think that the river is a very wonderful river. Some day we will go down there. Some day we will go to all places.

  Then I break down the last barrier. I tell Shomake of my love for Marie. He listens, and he understands. He tells me about his new fiddle, which he will have soon. Now—isn’t the world at our feet?

  TWENTY-TWO

  WORD OF THE GANG CAME TO BLACKBELLY THROUGH many sources. His own gang was a more natural thing; dark skins herded together. And by twelve o’clock that day, when Ishky and Shomake were still down by the river, Blackbelly sat in the yard behind his house with eight or nine colored boys.

  The white gang had formed. When Kipleg came back from work, he found Ollie, with four or five more boys. They drifted east, toward the lots, and by the time they reached the slope that led down toward the river, their number had almost doubled.

  Now Blackbelly sat in his yard with the colored boys, making their weapons. Preparation was simple. A long sock was filled with ashes and bits of glass; sand gave it weight, and then a knot was tied above the filling. Luxurious in the sun, the colored boys stretched and yawned, grinned. It would be a big fight.

  Blackbelly sat apart. Short, broad, solid, they had only to look at him to be filled with a sense of their own strength. Blackbelly knew what he was about.

  A short, thin boy, whom they called Fishface, grinned and hefted his stocking. “My,” he said, “lookit dat.”

  “Dem white boys gonna git it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We gonna mash dem up an’ cut dere asses offana dem.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Lookee—lookee.”

  Blackbelly wondered— Anyway, today was as good a day as any for the fight. Let it come; it had to come. He wasn’t afraid. Hell, no, he was far from afraid. Only—

  There was more to Blackbelly than to any of the others. He had a broad good head, wide eyes, and an endless expanse of brow. He fought because he had to fight, but sometimes he looked just a little ahead. He sat now, swinging his stocking from hand to hand, saying to himself, “Let it come, let it come.”

  “Hey—you Blackbelly.”

  He grinned, and he stood up. The rest stood up with him. Fishface danced from one side of the yard to the other, and a very small colored boy rolled about, hugging his knees. Blackbelly felt himself trembling—not with fear; only he hoped the fight would come soon.

  “Goddammem,” he muttered.

  “Boy—we’ll shid all over dem.”

  Ollie—Ollie, yellow hair and blue eyes, and the swagger that ruled the world. How he hated him! This time it would be Ollie and he, and for Ollie there’d be no way out of it. He looked at his feet, black toes coming out of broken shoes; torn breeches and a torn shirt. There wouldn’t be much left of it; but in the same way he’d tear the clothes from Ollie.

  Ollie—Ollie, who was king—

  “Geesus, c’mon,” Fishface said.

  “Whatsa matter, Blackbelly?” Cooly asked.

  “Yeah?” the very small one said eagerly.

  “Awright, awright—”

  But Blackbelly stood there, thinking and thinking. Was he afraid then? He threw back his head, and began to laugh; he laughed until his whole body shook with it, until tears rolled down his dark flat cheeks.

  “Geesus!”

  Then he led the way toward the street, rolling now from side to side with his old swagger.

  “Geesus, yeah.”

  And they followed him, in a close, compact, trusting group. Swinging their stockings, they went up the block, but Ollie’s gang had already gone. At the corner, they stopped.

  “Whereya goin’, Blackbelly?”

  “Down tuh duh river.”

  “Tink dey’ll be dere?”

  “Sure.”

  They walked on, slowly, still in their compact battle group, Blackbelly, Fishface, Cooly—

  And Blackbelly tried not to think. Down by the river, they would fight, and that was all. Why think? Only—

  (“Geesus, I’m scared.”)

  They didn’t have to fight, they didn’t have to fight. Only bow to Ollie, who was king. Crawl into alleys.

  The weighted stockings swung from side to side—

  TWENTY-THREE

  THEN LET THEM FIGHT.

  Marie nodded to herself, stood like a small white elf, leaning against her stoop. But after they had gone, after both gangs had gone, the street was strangely empty. Empty and large and full of sun—oh, enough to make her afraid.

  Another girl came out of the house, and they sat down on the stoop to play jacks. The ball bounced and the bits of iron slithered back and forth. But Marie kept looking up, always looking up. She wondered why, because she hated Ollie.

  She hated them all, Ollie and Ishky and Shomake and Kipleg. Now they would be beaten—

  “Marie!” The other girl’s name was Ruth.

  “I don’ wanna play no more.”

  “Why?”

  Marie ran across the street, stopping by Ishky’s stoop. Ishky would be better than nothing, but where was he? Carefully she ventured into the hall. Ruth came after her.

  “Whaddya goin’ in dere fer?”

&nb
sp; “Oh, lemme alone.”

  They went back into the sunshine, stood there. Marie stamped her foot angrily.

  “Whatsa matter?”

  “Nuttin’.”

  “Whyya mad?”

  “Oh, lemme alone.”

  Again she crossed the street, ran up the stoop and into her house. In the hall, she shivered; it was so dark. Step by step, she advanced to the stairs. Then she sat down on the stairs. Then, very softly, she began to cry. But she didn’t know why she was crying.

  She dried her eyes. She went back through the hall into the street. She went into the shoe repair shop. Cautiously, she stole into the back room. Only Shomake’s mother was there. The woman smiled at Marie.

  “Hello, lovely one,” she said in Italian.

  “Hello.”

  “But today is no day for beauty to bloom within.”

  “There’s no one to play with,” Marie answered, speaking in the same tongue.

  “And am I any better than the poorest company?”

  Marie smiled, and Shomake’s mother went on with her work. Then, suddenly, Marie blundered into quick, trembling speech, in English.

  “Listen, I know who took duh fiddle.”

  “What?” Shomake’s mother turned around, very slowly; she stared at Marie.

  “Ishky.”

  “What? But no—Ishky would do no harm.”

  “He took it.”

  Now the woman looked at her carefully, turning from her cleaning to sit down in a broad chair. She drew Marie to her. “Tell me, child—what do you know?”

  “Ishky took it, wid Ollie an’ Kipleg. Dey smashed it all tuh pieces.”

  “No, no—tell me in our tongue.”

  “Ishky an Ollie—”

  Shomake’s mother shook her head, her eyes full of pain; she let go of Marie, and Marie turned and fled from the shop. She ran through the hall and up the steps as if a thousand devils were after her. When her mother opened the door, Marie buried her face in her skirt.

  “Child—child—”

  She lifted Marie in her arms, took her inside, afraid at the way the girl’s body trembled.

  “Now, tell me.”

  “Ishky took it, Ishky took it!” she screamed.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THEY TOOK THOMAS EDISON BECAUSE THEY NEEDED ALL they could get. He promised to fight.

  He moved up the block with them, as proud as he had ever been in all his life, swinging his stocking from side to side, and swaggering almost as much as Ollie.

  Across the avenue and down toward the river, he imagined the eyes of all the world to be upon him. It was good, and it was satisfying; but it wearied his mind. And he was not quite certain whether he wouldn’t be afraid. Once, he wanted to go back, but Ollie threatened to break his neck, and then he went on with them.

  Then he began to sing. He sang at the top of his voice, swinging the stocking, kicking up his feet in front of him.

  “Shuddup,” Ollie said.

  “Geesus yeah.”

  Some of the boys began to laugh, and that angered Ollie. Everyone knew that Thomas Edison was his brother.

  “Shuddup!”

  “Awright, Ollie.”

  His head was heavy, and it began to loll from side to side. Instead of kicking up his feet, he began to stumble. He was tired, but no one would let him rest. He knew that he had to go on, to prove to them now that he was not too different from the rest.

  SHOMAKE AND I played, and time passed. We leaned over the embankment, where the sewer flows into the river, and threw stones at things. Sometimes, a bottle would shoot out, and then we would throw until we had broken it.

  Shomake laughed so much that I was certain he had forgotten about the fiddle. Anyway, I would not remind him. We set out to find the garden.

  I say, “We’ll look over duh whole world.”

  “A magic gaden, ain’ it?” Shomake wants to know.

  “Yeah.”

  Shomake thinks a while, and then a wonderful idea occurs to him. “If it’s a magic gaden, den it c’n be anywhere at all.”

  “Well—”

  “Sure, if it’s magic.”

  “Awright.”

  We go into a broad field, full of high grass, and we pretend to look between the grass. That sets us laughing, because how could the garden be in such a place? Then we look beneath a tree.

  We come to a fountain, bubbling with clear water, and we both drink. Shomake splashes the water all over his face, and then we throw water at each other. We squirt it from our mouths, and after that we roll in the grass to dry ourselves.

  We are muddy and dirty and wet, but what difference does that make? Suddenly, I spring up and tell Shomake to run. I chase him, and then he chases me, and finally, when we end up beneath the tall rocks, we are both sobbing with pleasure and panting for breath.

  “Less rest,” I say.

  So we sit down, tell each other about the garden, describe it as though we had lived in it all our lives. Isn’t it strange that we both know so much about this magic garden, when neither of us has been there? Shomake knows that there will be music in the garden, and fiddles, too; but that does not please me so much, as I cannot play a fiddle.

  “Phonagraphs,” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  “An’ cake.”

  “Yeah.”

  Marie, too, I think; but I don’t tell that to Shomake. Only, I dream a little by myself of how Marie will be in the garden with us.

  Now we are rested, and we begin to climb the rocks. Oh, we climb very carefully, because if you slip here, you will be smashed to bits. And halfway up, we rest on a ledge and look at the river. How beautiful the river is, winding away into the mist like a streak of silver! The world is at our feet, and we are young and happy. Far off, all clouded with mist, lies the city, a thousand tiny houses. The gas tanks break up like gray monsters; the elevated trains crawl like snakes. And over the river, there are bridges and bridges, as far as we can see.

  Isn’t this a place to forget all things except dreams? Shomake laughs, and I know why he is laughing; he is happy inside of himself. But he is no happier than I am.

  We are like two fat bugs in the sun, stretching, drinking in air and warm sunshine. Ollie is forgotten, Kipleg, too. Fights are forgotten. Who will bother us here?

  “Less climb,” Shomake says.

  So we go up the rocks, hand over hand, thrilling to the great distance under us. And when we reach the top, we sit down to rest. Here, on the top, a cool breeze blows from beyond the river. And the river crawls at our feet, like a thin silver snake. Then, turning around, Shomake sees Ollie and his gang.

  “Hey, Shomake!”

  Ollie led the way, Kipleg beside him, and behind them the rest of the gang trailed out. The long, weighted stockings swung from side to side, and Ollie’s yellow hair blew in the breeze and glinted in the sunshine.

  “Hey, Ishky!”

  Slowly, Ishky and Shomake rose to their feet. Without thinking a great deal, they knew the purpose of the gang. They went forward hesitantly, Ishky leading the way.

  “Hey, Ollie, whereya goin’?” he called.

  Ollie grinned.

  Kipleg said, “We’re gonna git Blackbelly.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’ll come down, awright.”

  “C’mon,” Ollie commanded.

  Shomake hesitated. The spell of the river seen from the top of the bluff was still upon him, the peace and the lull of the breeze. And as bitterly as he hated anything, he hated fighting. He held back.

  “We gotta go eat,” Ishky explained.

  “Yeah,” Shomake said. “I said tuh my mudder I’d be back tuh eat.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ollie stood in front of them, legs spread, hands on his hips. His insolent, ready grin still lingered upon his lips. “Geesus,” he said. And that was all.

  Kipleg said, “All wops an’ sheeneys are yella.”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “Yella as shid.”

>   “Yuh stinkin’ wop.”

  “I don’ wanna fight,” Shomake protested.

  “I tol’ yuh he was yella.”

  “Areya comin’?” Ollie wanted to know.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well—” Ishky began.

  “Are yuh comin’, or ain’ya?” Ollie swung his stocking in a great circle, bringing it close to Shomake’s face.

  “I ain’ done nuttdin’ tub. you, Ollie.”

  “Are ya comin’?”

  “Geesus, givem dere lumps!”

  “Kick duh shid oudda duh yella basteds!”

  “Awright,” Ishky nodded.

  They fell in at the back, with Thomas Edison, who walked with his head hanging down, he was so tired now.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  DOWN NEAR THE RIVER, NEAR AN OVERHANGING ROCK, they held their council of war, and now Ollie nodded significantly at a rope he wore wound around his middle. They all sat in a circle, Ishky and Shomake too, and very often they glanced up at the bluff, where Blackbelly might be expected to appear. They had left their invitation by moving boldly down to the river. If Blackbelly failed to take it up—

  Ollie said, “Jus’ lemme get my hands on dat nigger, dat’s all.”

  “Whaddya gonna do, Ollie?”

  “Plenny.”

  Thomas Edison was good and tired, not a little afraid, too, and he began to whimper. He pressed beseechingly against Ishky, and when Ishky shook him off, he looked at Ollie.

  Ollie was explaining the science of battle. “Gittem before dey know what’s at. Den kick duh nuts offana dem.”

  “Yeah,” Kipleg agreed.

  “Don git yella.”

  Thomas Edison said, “Ollie—”

  “Geesus, whaddya wan’ now?”

  “Ollie—I wanna go home.”

  “Geesus, d’ya wan’ me tuh kick duh shid oudda yuh?”

  “Naw. I wanna go home.”

  “Whatcha leddim come along fer?”

  “Nevermin’. You stay here, duh yuh hear me?”

  “Ollie—”

  “Yuh heard me.”

  “Awright.”

  “Whaddya got in yer stockin’, Ollie?” someone asked.

  “Ashes. But I’m gonna use my hands.”

  “Whaddya got duh rope fer?”