The Children Read Free

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

    O N 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.
    In the middle of the block, in wooden houses, the Irish lived and ruled. They could fight like hell. You were always very careful of the micks, because they could fight like hell. Even the little shanty bastards who had nothing at all, could at least fight like hell.
    There were Negroes down the block, and everyone said that it ruined the block to have black folks there, but who could stop the Negroes from coming? You never knew what was what, and then all of a sudden there were a lot of little Negroes on the street. They simply came from nowhere at all, and of course everyone said that it would ruin the block in the end. But they did no harm; they weren’t people to go around picking fights.
    There was more to the block than that, fences and railings and dark halls, and cellars—ah, what cellars there were, deep ones, and strange ones, and silent ones.
    Mostly life was battle, battle from morning to night; it was strange how you went about, just living. But wounds heal quickly, and it is easy to forget. Even when you are hard hurt, you heal quickly.
    Sometimes, there is peace. That is how it was this morning, nearing ten o’clock, hot and beautiful as only a summer day could be. Low hanging, the sun made shadows with the houses. There were birds pecking their breakfast from the street.

THREE

    I F ONLY I HAD A BEAUTIFUL NAME, LIKE ARTHUR OR Daniel. But I’m Ishky—and that’s all. I knew it then, when she came to the stoop and stood there.
    She had a small white dress and a blue ribbon, and she was the most wonderful creature on the block. Her name was Marie, and she was an Italian with long yellow hair. You can only imagine how beautiful she was, because I can’t tell you. But she had the kind of eyes that are like flowers.
    She was looking for Ollie, not exactly looking for him, but looking at everything on the street, wondering whether, perhaps, Ollie would be some part of it She was afraid of Ollie—still.
    There was nothing on the street now but Ishky and people who were grown. Ishky sat on the edge