The Children Read online

  The Children

  Howard Fast

  To those who are the most unfortunate

  victims of race hatred—the children,

  in the hope that they will grow up in

  a cleaner and better world.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  IT WAS TWELVE YEARS AGO THAT I FINISHED WRITING The Children. And, looking back, it seems to me that writing it was the most difficult literary task I had ever attempted, both in a physical and in a creative sense.

  At the time, I was working twelve to fourteen hours a day in a factory in downtown New York. I followed the storybook maxim of the writer who would write, come what may, come heaven or hell. Rising with the dawn, I drank two or three cups of strong coffee; and I managed to write a little, a page or two, each day. It wasn’t a pleasant process, or one that I consider particularly helpful to the creative life. My wages at that time—and you will remember that those were very bad times—were eleven dollars a week; my health was not good. I was always tired—I always dreamed of the two or three extra hours of sleep which I had to deny myself or stop writing. And when I finished, when I finally wrote the last page of a book that had come out of my very gut, I realized that it was like nothing else that I had ever read, and would therefore probably be consigned to a desk drawer forever. In the two years that followed, I wrote almost nothing at all.

  In the beginning, I rejected the manuscript myself. I put it away for three months and did absolutely nothing with it. Then I read in the papers that Whit Burnett, who was editor of Story magazine, was deeply interested in the short novel, and I left the book at his office. A week later, it became a discovery, and I was invited down to Story magazine to be told what a wonderful young talent I was—and to participate in the general excitement. This was one of their finds—as was most carefully explained to me—one of the reasons why their little magazine justified its existence. Of course, it was very long for a magazine, 45,000 words, and they would not think of cutting any of it, so they had to investigate the possibility of a special type of word-spacing, something that would permit almost twice the usual word-length on a page. The expense this involved was very considerable for a magazine like Story, and therefore they could not pay a great deal for it.

  “How much?” I asked them.

  “Fifty dollars,” they said.

  I turned this over in my mind. On a word basis, it was somewhat more than a tenth of a cent per word, a remarkable record for literary payment; but if I computed the hours I had spent on it during the past year, a thousand hours at the very least, I arrived at the magnificent wage of five cents an hour. I arrived at an estimate of what it was worth to break your heart and your head because you thought that the literary art was the proudest and the most worthy that man had learned. Then and there, I arrived at a decision—to write no more, to dig ditches, to operate a machine, to ride the freights, but to write no more.

  Well, I didn’t keep to that decision, and I managed to get Story to raise its price to one hundred dollars. But I never again wrote for one of the little magazines. I don’t blame Whit Burnett for that condition; his was an unending struggle to keep alive the one outlet a sincere writer then had, and his was also a most considerable contribution to the literature of the ’thirties. But I did look with some new degree of understanding at a society that can offer the artist only poverty, hopelessness, and an occasional crumb of sustenance—a society that drives him to prostitution as certainly as it drives the poor women who walk the streets. I remember, some years later, discussing this with Stuart Rose, who was then an editor of The Ladies’ Home Journal. I no longer had to work in a factory, because Mr. Rose was buying most of the stories I wrote, and he was paying me six hundred dollars apiece for them. They were not good stories; they were not stories I was proud of then, and I would be less proud of them in the future, but they represented mountains of hamburger and steak and bread and butter. Mr. Rose said to me, one day, when I was lunching with him in Philadelphia:

  “You know, I never read anything like The Children. It was a poem. It moved me tremendously.” He thought I should write more things like that, and he couldn’t understand why I disagreed with him.

  The Children appeared in the March, 1937, issue of Story magazine. James J. Fee, Police Inspector of Lynn, Massachusetts, read his first copy of Story and decided that The Children was “the rottenest thing I ever read!” The two copies that usually went to Lynn were promptly seized. The next day, it was banned in Waterbury, Connecticut, and six hundred orders from that town promptly came in to Story. The ban spread over New England, which has been sensitive about such matters ever since Hawthorne was threatened with jail, whipping, and exile because he wrote The Scarlet Letter. This was the first time in six years that Story had been banned, and it resulted in one of the largest press runs the magazine had ever known.

  Since that time, for one reason or another, book publication has been put off. During the war years, I felt that no piece of writing was of any great import unless it contributed something or other to the struggle we were waging for our very existence, and immediately after the war I had another book that I wished to have published first. So now, at long last, I am seeing The Children in book form. It is almost exactly as I wrote it. Only the most minor editorial changes have been made.

  I have no apologies to make for The Children. When I picked it up, a few months before this writing, I read it for the first time in a full decade. It was like reading the work of a stranger, and I could bring to it that relationship a writer almost never has with his own work—that of complete objectivity. Even the various incidents in the tale had been forgotten. I reacted as a reader does, sometimes with pleasure, sometimes with disappointment, but always with incredulous interest that so pure and naive a sense of horror could be woven and sustained. Twelve years ago, I was close enough to childhood to remember the moods, the incidents, and the emotions described; today, as I approach my middle thirties, the curtain has already dropped, and there is no way back. The child’s world is his, and it is barred to the adult. If the story told here is successful, it is mainly because the child’s point of view has been sustained.

  When I wrote it, I wrote out of bitterness and hate for what our society does to children; nor do I think that situation has appreciably bettered itself. Racism—and the murderous lesser ’isms it breeds—is the curse and cancer of modern America; it is a radio-active effusion that penetrates to every level of our society, and unless we destroy it, as surely as the earth exists, it will destroy us.

  I do not think I could write of the sickness of race-hatred today in terms anywhere like these. Too much has happened in the world since 1934, and too much has changed. In 1934, there was one year of Hitlerism, and we still believed those who said Hitler would not last a thousand days. Today, fifty million dead attest the hell that fascism can produce. The writer, today, has a responsibility he cannot ignore, and if I wrote about these matters today, I would have to examine far more completely the source which these children reflect.

  And finally, there is the slum, the jelly on which the germ is bred. If anything, twelve years have given us more and worse slums. If this small tale does anything to help replace them with decent housing, it will be well worth the printing.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE
<
br />   TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  ONE

  UP THE STREET, SLOWLY, OLLIE SWAGGEKED, HIS HEAD cocked, his hands in pockets bulging with the immies he had won. Because he knew he would win again; he knew he could go on winning until there wasn’t another immie left in the world. He selected a round beautiful red glassy, and tossed it away. That was the way Ollie felt.

  The world was full of hot sunlight and red brick walls, and the world, stretching from avenue to avenue, was held in by the walls. Maybe that was why Ollie loomed so big, because the world was so small. Big and small, big and small; but, until something larger came, Ollie was king. He knew he was king, and he attempted to walk like a king, brushing back his long yellow hair from his eyes, throwing back his head. Still, it was an easy world to be king of now, dozing and hot, and all sort of vague. Ollie was conscious of that vagueness that came in the middle of the summer-time; it made him too lazy, even, to fight. It was easy to be king, and, if’ nobody wanted to fight, you didn’t want to fight yourself. What then?

  He rattled his immies, and then he noticed a little Jew sitting on the curb. Dimly, as a king, he knew that the little Jew’s name was Ishky.

  “Hey, yuh stinkin’ kikel” Ollie yelled good-naturedly.

  “Hey, Ollie.”

  “Wanna fight?”

  “Naw, Ollie.”

  “Wanna shoot immies? Aincha got none?”

  “Yer a shark.”

  “G’wan, I ain’.”

  “Y’are.”

  “Awright, den—gimme yer immies.”

  “Aw, Ollie,” the little Jew began to beg.

  “Yuh heard me.”

  “I’ll play yuh.”

  “Gimme dem,” Ollie commanded. Again he brushed back his yellow hair, weaving luxuriously. The sun was hot; it is never so hot as in July, and no matter how many times they wet the streets, it does no good. You can’t cool streets when they become hot as the summer sun.

  Then Ollie walked away with four more immies. He was eleven years and two months, Ollie was, with yellow hair and blue eyes. He was a king; his eyes twinkled like the blue sky, and he was beautiful.

  I DIDN’T HATE Ollie, because he was beautiful—not like Ralph the Wop; I just sat there after he had taken my four immies, and after a little while the hot sun made me feel better inside of myself. There was a big hole in my shoe, and there was a hole in my stocking, too, so I could see my large toe, watch it as I moved it about from side to side and then up and down. There was the toe and the street and the sun, and anyway I would have lost the immies sooner or later.

  Ollie was lazy and rich; otherwise he might have taken a sock out of the little Jew bastard. But when Ollie was lazy and rich, he became big; it wasn’t hard for Ollie to become big.

  Now it was the morning, only half-past nine in the morning, and all of the long hot summer day stretched ahead. For Ollie, there was adventure in any one of a thousand possibilities.

  Now, almost at the avenue, Ollie could look down the block. It was long—or maybe Ollie was small and the block was not so long. But the block was his, and if he stayed on the block he would be king. He wouldn’t be king anywhere else; anywhere else he would have to fight, his way, and when you fight, you take your chances on winning or losing. His pockets were full of round beautiful glass immies; the day was young and bright, and the spirit of adventure was hot inside of him.

  He stopped to tease a cat. The cat was yellow and white; as soon as it saw Ollie, it arched its back, drew its four feet together, and began to yowl and spit. The cat knew Ollie; Ollie knew the cat.

  “C’mere,” Ollie said.

  The cat lifted a foot, daintily, warningly.

  “Pussy—pussss—”

  The foot wavered, and then it wavered a moment too long, and Ollie had the cat. By the scruff of its neck he lifted it, swinging it back and forth.

  “Dere, liddle yellaw basted—dere, whaddya goin’ t’do now? Whaddya goin’ tuh do now I got yuh? Whaddya goin’ t’do?”

  The cat whimpered pleadingly, clawing feebly with its feet. It was an old cat, without a great deal of spirit; and it knew Ollie. Vaguely, in its cat’s way, it knew that Ollie was king. What are you to do with a king, if you are a cat? If you fight back, in the end it doesn’t matter, because otherwise the king wouldn’t be a king. So what are you to do?

  Ollie swung the cat in a great circle, and then he sent it flying through the air. Catlike, it landed on its feet, and again it paid the penalty for being an old cat, for Ollie was upon it, kneeling next to it. Spreading its paws, he turned it over.

  “Hey, Ishky!” he screamed.

  Ishky looked at him. Ishky had admired the battle with the cat. When it came to cats, there wasn’t anyone like Ollie.

  “Hey, Ishky, c’mere.”

  Slowly, warily as the cat, Ishky approached. You could never tell about a king, or what new kind of devilishness he was up to. You had to always watch and watch. That was how life went on, otherwise it would not be endurable at all. Only if you watched, and even then you were caught plenty of times.

  “What?”

  “C’mere, Ishky—lookit dis cat.”

  “What?”

  “Betcha it’s a she cat, Ishky?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Betcha—betcha I c’n tell if it’s a he cat or a she cat.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Betcha you can’t.”

  “I dunno.”

  “G’wan an’ putcha finger dere, Ishky. Feel aroun’ an’ see. G’wan an’ do it, Ishky.”

  “No …”

  “Whatsa matter? Yuh yella? Whatsa matter witcha anyway? Geesus!”

  “I ain’ yella, Ollie. Hones’, I ain’. Oney it’s dirdy.”

  “Well, a liddle dirt ain’ goin’ tuh killya.”

  “You do it, Ollie. I’ll hol’ duh cat.”

  “Yuh ain’ got guts tuh.”

  “Well, lemme showya, Ollie.”

  Ollie glanced up at him, hesitated, then nodded. How beautiful Ollie was, with his yellow hair and his blue eyes. Those two, the most beautiful things in the world, yellow hair and blue eyes. Yellow hair like silk or spun gold;—and Ishky was looking at the yellow hair, and that was why the cat sprang away, and for no other reason than that. The hair is beautiful and fine, and the eyes sparkle like the sky; if the sky is inside of the eyes, could you expect any less than that from Ollie? But the cat got away.

  “Oh—Ollie.”

  “Geesus Christ, yuh liddle Jew basted!”

  “I swear I din’ mean tuh do it, Ollie.”

  “I’m gonna beat duh ass offana yuh.”

  “I din’ mean it, Ollie.”

  “Put up, or do yuh wan’ me tuh giveya lumps?”

  “I din’ mean it, Ollie.”

  Ollie got tired of hitting him; after all, he was a king, and what was the use of fighting, when the person you fought with didn’t fight back? What was the use? So Ollie left him and wandered around the corner. There was a garbage can there, full to the brim, and smelly. First, Ollie took the cover off. Then he ran at it and kicked it. The can went over, and the garbage spilled into the street. For a little while, Ollie kicked the garbage around, but he tired of that. He stood in the sun, in the garbage, hands in his pockets—

  Alert, defiant, laughing inside of himself, Ollie was. Let the landlord come out, or the janitor. The janitor was a wop, and Ollie hoped he would come out himself. He split an overripe melon with his toe, scattering it onto the hot stoop. Laughing, he showed his white teeth. Let the whole world come out of the house, and it would make no difference to Ollie.

  The janitor came out, raging. He was a small man, with long black mustaches, and part of a breakfast egg was still o
n his cheek.

  “Dirdy Irish louse!” he screamed.

  “G’wan, yuh dago bitch!”

  “Bummer!”

  “Piss on yer cheek.”

  Then Ollie fled, laughing and waving his arms.

  I WAS HURT more because Ollie had hit me than from the pain of the blows. What are blows? Blows pass, and then the pain is gone. And the pain inside of you? Well, that passes, too, I guess. I guess that all things pass, because in the end I don’t remember too much. I just remember what is nice.

  My name is Ishky, and even that is contempt. But there isn’t contempt inside of me. Could Ollie dream the way I do about things that might happen, but don’t? It is early in the morning, and everything is clean and beautiful and warm, and I am happy to be alive. I am happy even after Ollie hits me, only—

  Why didn’t I hit back? I thought of doing it. No matter how much Ollie hurts me, if I hit back, it’s not so bad. But instead I stand there and do nothing at all, and then I begin to cry. And why is that so?

  But I don’t know, and, anyway, how long should I think of that when the sun is so bright in the morning? And Ollie is gone. He’s gone off the block, which is what I mean when I say that he is gone.

  I sit down on the curb again, and I find a little piece of wood with which to disturb the water that runs in the gutter. There is always water running in the gutter, brown and black water, wonderful water. But any water is wonderful. Don’t I know that?

  TWO

  ON THE BLOCK THEN, AND IT WASN’T SO LONG AGO, THERE was a division in this way. At the top, or east end, there were Americans, real old Americans, and their fathers had been American, and their fathers—nobody knows how far back. They lived in the four houses at the top of the block.

  Then there were the Jews, in two houses, two small red houses. They had a certain sense of apartness, because they lived so near to the Americans.

  The Italians were all in one brown house, a little shabby brown house, yet there seemed to be more Italians than Americans and Jews together.

  The Spaniards were scattered here and there, and the spick gang was nothing at all, because even the Jews could beat them up.