Henry Roth - Call It Sleep

“Hey!”

“Jesus!”

“Give a look! Id’s rain—

“Shawt soicit, Mack—”

“Mary, w’at’s goin’—”

“Schloimee, a blitz like—”

“Hey mate!”

On Avenue D, a long burst of flame spurted from underground, growled as if the veil of earth were splitting. People were hurrying now, children scooting past them, screeching. On Avenue C, the lights of the trolley-car waned and wavered. The motorman cursed, feeling the power drain. In the Royal Warehouse, the blinking watchman tugged at the jammed and stubborn window. The shriveled coal-heaver leaned unsteadily from between the swinging door — blinked, squinted in pain, and—

“Holy Mother O’ God! Look! Will yiz!”

“Wot?”

“There’s a guy layin’ there! Burrhnin’!”

“Naw! Where!”

“Gawd damn the winder!”

“It’s on Tent’ Street! Look!”

“O’Toole!”

The street was filled with running men, faces carved and ghostly in the fierce light. They shouted hoarsely. The trolley-car crawled forward. Up above a window slammed open.

“Christ, it’s a kid!”

“Yea!”

“Don’t touch ’im!”

“Who’s got a stick!”

“A stick!”

“A stick, fer Jesus sake!”

“Mike! The shovel! Where’s yer fuck’n’ shov—”

“Back in Call—”

“Oy sis a kind—”

“Get Pete’s crutch! Hey Pete!”

“Aaa! Who touched yer hump, yuh gimpty fu—”

“Do sompt’n! Meester! Meester!”

“Yuh crummy bastard, I saw yuh sneakin’—” The hunchback whirled, swung away on his crutches. “Fuck yiz!”

“Oy! Oy vai! Oy vai! Oy vai!”

“Git a cop!”

“An embillance — go cull-oy!”

“Don’t touch ’im!”

“Bambino! Madre mia!”

“Mary. It’s jus’ a kid!”

“Helftz! Helftz! Helftz Yeedin! Rotivit!”

A throng ever thickening had gathered, confused, paralyzed, babbling. They squinted at the light, at the outstretched figure in the heart of the light, tossed their arms, pointed, clawed at their cheeks, shoved, shouted, moaned—

“Hi! Hi down there! Hi!” A voice bawled down from the height. “Look out below! Look out!”

The crowd shrank back from the warehouse.

W-w-whack!

“It’s a—”

“You take it!”

Grab it!”

“Gimme dat fuck’n’ broom!”

“Watch yerself, O’Toole!”

“Oy, a good men! Got should—”

“Oooo! De pore little kid, Mimi!”

“He’s gonna do it!”

“Look oud!

“Dunt touch!”

The man in the black shirt, tip-toed guardedly to the rails. His eyes, screwed tight against the awful glare, he squinted over his raised shoulder.

“Shove ’im away!”

“Go easy!”

“Look odda!”

“Atta boy!”

“Oy Gottinyoo!”

The worn, blackened broom straws wedged between the child’s shoulder and the cobbles. A twist of the handle. The child rolled over on his face.

“Give ’im anudder shove!”

“At’s it! Git ’im away!”

“Quick! Quick!”

Once more the broom straws rammed the outstretched figure. He slid along the cobbles, cleared the tracks. Someone on the other side grabbed his arm, lifted him, carried him to the curb. The crowd swirled about in a dense, tight eddy.

“Oy! Givalt!”

“Gib’m air!”

“Is ’e boined?”

“Bennee stay by me!”

“ Is ’e boined! Look at his shoe!”

“Oy, de pooh mama! De pooh mama!”

“Who’s kid?”

“Don’ know, Mack!”

“Huz pushin’?”

“Jesus! Take ’im to a drug-store.”

“Naa, woik on ’im right here. I woiked in a power house!”

“Do sompt’n! Do sompt’n!”

The writhing dipper was now almost consumed. Before the flaring light, the weird white-lipped, staring faces of the milling throng wheeled from chalk to soot and soot to chalk again — like masks of flame that charred and were rekindled; and all their frantic, gnarling bodies cut a darting splay of huge, impinging shadow, on dump-heap, warehouse, river and street—

Klang! The trolley drew up.

“Oyeee! Ers toit! Ers to-i-t! Oye-e-e-e!” A woman screamed, gagged, fainted.

“Hey! Ketch ’er!”

“Schleps aveck!”

“Wat d’ hell’d she do dat fer—”

“Vawdeh!”

They dragged her away on scuffing heels to one side.

“Shit!” The motorman had jumped down from the car and seized the broom—

“Fan ’er vid de het!”

“Git off me feet, you!”

“At’s it! Lean on ’im O’Toole! Push ’im down! At’s it! At’s it! I woiked in a power house—”

And with the broom straws the motorman flipped the mangled metal from the rail. A quake! As if leviathan leaped for the hook and fell back threshing. And darkness.

Darkness!

They grunted, the masses, stood suddenly mute a moment, for a moment silent, stricken, huddled, crushed by the pounce of ten-fold night. And a voice spoke, strained, shrunken, groping—

“Ey, paizon! She ’sa whita yet — lika you looka da slacka lime alla time! You know?”

Someone shrieked. The fainting woman moaned. The crowd muttered, whispered, seething uneasily in the dark, welcomed the loud newcomers who pierced the dense periphery—

“One side! One side!” Croaking with authority, the stone-grim uniformed one shouldered his way through. “One side!”

“De cops!”

“Dun’t step on ’im!”

“Back up youz! Back up! Didja hea’ me, Moses? Back up! Beat it! G’wan!” They fell back before the perilous arc of the club. “G’wan before I fan yiz! Back up! Let’s see sompt’n’ in hea’! Move! Move, I say!” Artificial ire flung the spittle on his lips. “Hey George!” He flung at a burly one. “Give us a hand hea, will yiz!”

“Sure! Git back you! Pete! Git that other side!”

The policeman wheeled round, squatted down beside the black-shirted one. “Don’ look boined.”

“Jist his shoe.”

“How long wuz he on?”

“Christ! I don’t know. I came ouda Callahan’s an’ de foist t’ing I know somebody lams a broom out of a winder, an’ I grabs it an’ shoves ’im off de fuck’n t’ing—”

“Sh! Must a done it himself— Naa! Dat ain’t de way! Lemme have ’im.” He pushed the other aside, turned the child over on his face. “Foist aid yuh gits ’em hea.” His bulky hands all but encompassed the narrow waist. “Like drownin’, see?” He squeezed,

Khir-r-r-r-f! S-s-s-s-.

“I hoid ’im!”

“Yeah!”

“He’s meckin’ him t’ breed!”

“See? Gits de air in ’im.”

Khir-r-r-r-f! S-s-s-s.

“Looks like he’s gone, do. W’ere de hell’s dat ambillance?”

“Vee culled id a’reddy, Ufficeh!”

“Arh!”

“Rap ’im on de feet arficer, I woiked

in a power—”

Khir-r-r-r-f! S-s-s-s

“Anybody know ’im? Any o’ youz know dis kid?”

The inner and the craning semi-circle muttered blankly. The policeman rested his ear against the child’s back.

“Looks like he’s done fer, butchuh can’t tell—”

Khir-r-r-r-f! S-s-s-s.

“He sez he’s dead, Mary.”

“Dead!”

“Oy! Toit!”

“Gott sei donk, id’s nod mine Elix—”

Khir-r-r-r-f. S-s-s-s.

“Sit im helfin vie a toitin bankis.” The squat shirt-sleeved Jew whose tight belt cut his round belly into the letter B turned to the lime-streaked wop — squinted, saw that communication had failed. “It’ll help him like cups on a cawps,” he translated — and tapped his chest with an ace of spades.

Khi-r-r-r-f. S-s-s-s.

( E-e-e-e. E-e-e-e-.

One ember fanned … dulling … uncertain )