Henry Roth - Call It Sleep

— Like I never camel Like I never came!

Fourth Street. In the flat smear of houses, he descried, or thought he did, the edge of his own on Ninth. It quickened his flagging legs, quelled somewhat the tumult and the fierce yapping pack within him and behind.

— Near house; Don’t go. Go round. But tired, all tired out. No! Go round! Go round!

At Seventh, he cut west, entered Avenue C, and at Ninth, turned East again, dragging his faltering legs cheder-ward. He must hold gnashing memory at bay, He must! He must! He’d scream if he didn’t forget! A furtive glance at his house as he reached the cheder entrance. He slipped into the hallway, hurried through.

The cheder yard. Haven! Haven at last! Several of the rabbi’s pupils were there. Loiterers, late-comers, elfin and voluble, they squatted or sprawled in the dazzling sun, or propped idle, wagging heads against the blank wall of the strict cube which was the cheder. His heart sprang out to them; tears of deliverance lifted so brimming high in his eyes a breath would have spilled them. He had always been one of them, always been there, never been away. Silently, fears relaxing in the steeping tide of gratitude, he came down the wooden steps, approached. They looked up—

“Yaw last!”, said Izzy, languid and scrupulous.

He grinned ingratiatingly. “Yea.”

“Aftuh me!” Solly severely.

“Aftuh me!” Schloimee.

“Aftuh me!” Zuck, Lefty, Benny, Simkee decreed.

“Awri!” He was only too glad to be lorded over — the token of their accepting him, the token of their letting him share their precious aimlessness, innocence, laughter. “Yea, I’m last. I’m last.” And finding a place against the cheder wall, he squatted down. He focused his whole being upon them. He would not think now. He would only listen, only forget.

Solly was speaking — in his voice an immense and mournful yearning. “Wisht I had a chair like dat!”

“Me too! Yea! Wisht I had t’ree chairs, like dat.”

Their amens were also mournful as if little hope inspired them.

“So yuh don’t have to gib’m all, do yuh?” Izzy fought back despair. “If yuh don’ wanna play fuh ’em, waddayuh wanna give ’im all, if yuh god so moch?”

“Cauthye I wanthyloo, dayuth w’y’.” Benny was obdurate. Benny was also afflicted with a lateral emission — no word he uttered ever succeeded in reaching his lips, but instead splashed out through his missing teeth. But David was only too glad that Benny spoke so thickly. It meant that he had to concentrate all his faculties on what he said. In trying to divine Benny’s meaning, one could forget all else. “If I blyibm duh ywully ylyod, den he wonthye hilyt me so moyuch, myaytlybe.”

“Yea, he geds a lodda hits,” sober Simkee reminded the rest. “De rebbeh never knows w’at he’s tuckin’ aboud.”

“Dat’s righ’!” Izzy tacked into sympathy. “We know yuh gid hit a lot, Benny, bot one poinder ain’ gonna make no differ’nce, is id? How moch yuh god?”

“A ylod.”

“How moch?”

“Thwenny thlyeb’m.”

“Twennyy seb’m!” they echoed marveling. “He’s god ’nuff fuh a mont’!”

“So if yuh gib’m twenny-six?” Izzy persisted. “Won’ he drop dead anyways? Nobody ever gab’m twenny-six! Only Hoish w’en he won ’em aftuh Wildy swiped ’em. Let’s see ’em!”

After a moment of hesitation, Benny opened several buttons on his shirt, drew out a bundle of sticks neatly tied with a string, and displayed them fondly. They were sharpened at one end and were of the same length and color as pointers — though not quite so straight.

Necks were craning. Some sighed. Some gasped. Within David surge after surge of gratitude beat about his heart. Oh, he was glad to be among them! To forget!

“Like real poinde’s!”

“C’n yuh bend ’em?”

“’N yuh cut ’em all outchuh self?”

“Gee, I wish I had dot kin’ o’ chair!”

And as Benny was about to stow them away in his bosom again—

“Aintcha gonna give us one?” Izzy pleaded, “Look, I god de match! Led’s smoke one — jos’ one — will yuh, Benny.”

“Nyo!”

“Aaa, don’t be a stingy louse!” they clamored.

Benny hesitated. “Lyuh gonniyl yuledth mhe sthmhoke tdew?”

“Sure! We’ll letcha smoke all yuh want!”

“Wadyuh t’ink!”

“Dlyust one.” He relented and drew a single reed out of the bound sheaf.

Izzy seized it jubilantly. “Now watch!” he admonished them. “Like a steamboat it’s gonna give.” And striking the match on the stone between his legs, applied it to one end of the reed, meanwhile sucking at the other. The former glowed, the latter yielded a sere, aromatic smoke.

“Gee!” they saucer-eyed. “Give a look, he’s real smokin’!”

“Wad’d I tell yuh!” Izzy’s features spread out in triumph. “I know dem chairs. Dey makes a noise w’en yuh sid on ’em. Crrk! Crrrk! Don’ dey Benny?”

“Lyea. Dlyon’ flyegedl, I’m fylyoist t’ stlmook.”

“Next aftuh Benny!”

“Next aftuh Simkee!”

“Me! I’m nex’ aftuh—!”

“You! Hoddy huh gid like—!”

“G’wan!”

“Wadda noif! Hooz nex’, Izzy?”

After much wrangling, turns were assigned.

Being near them, hearing the erratic spatter of their voices, yielding to their flickering moods was like basking in a hectic familiar oblivion. Their squabbling, their stridence drowned memory; that tireless tossing of their bodies, their whirring gestures, jerky antics stitched a fluctuant, tough, ever-renewing veil between himself and terror. David forgot. He was one of them.

Someone — it was Srooly — came out of the cheder, and once outside the door, squinted at them in surprise. “De cop’ll getchoo!”

“Yea!” they sneered. “He ain’t a’scared o’ us! Ha! Ha! Haw! Haw!”

Still squinting, Srooly approached. “Watcha smokin’?”

“Cantchuh see, cock-eye Mulligan? A cigah!”

He bent closer. “It’s a stick, liar!”

“Sure! It’s a smoke-stick an’ id could be fuh a poinder. Bud we didn’ wanna.”

“Uh! So hoddy yuh go?”

“Like dot.” Lefty, whose turn it was, enlightened him with a billow of smoke. “Dere’s liddle holes in id, all de way t’roo!”

“Give us a puff,” Srooly asked.

“Id’s mine,” Izzy announced. And no one contesting his claim, “I’m gonna dinch it an’ smook somm maw lader — aftuh Lefty finishes.”

“Give us a puff befaw.”

“Fuh somm o’ yuh flies I will.”

“Wise-guy! Yuh givin’ Lefty a smook fuh nutt’n.”

“So wot? Don’ smook den!”

“Aaa! Kipp it!”

“Puh! Who wants yuh flies!”

“Awri!” said Srooly. “I’ll give yuh one.”

“Give!”

Srooly brought out a smallish, square vial, squinted thoughtfully at the flies inside. “Most o’ ’em I jos’ caught in de gobbidj by Seven-twenty. On’y de big ones I take.”

“Hurry op, Lefty!”

“Aaa, waid a secon’, I jos’ god id!” Lefty puffed vigorously.

“Hey! I fuhgod!” Srooly suddenly remembered. “Huz nex’? Yuh bedder go in, de rebbeh says. Cause on’y Moishe is dere.”

“Me!” Schloimee rose. “Waid fer us, will ye, geng. Don’ forged!” He went off.

Srooly held the vial up to the light. Grey horseflies, glittering blue-bottles crawled and fell on the glassy sides. “Dey’s a old geezer in de cheder, yuh know?”

“Wit’ whiskers like de rebbeh!” The rest informed him. “We theleen ’im faw lyow dyihl. He’s loinin’ de guys.”

“Naa, he ain’ loinin’ de guys,” said Srooly. “He’s jost sittin’ an’ lookin.”

“So watz’e want?”

“Cow shid I know?” Srooly shrugged. “De Rebbeh wanzuh show off, dat’s all. An’ now — Hch! Hch! Hch! Moish is readin’ an’ he’s dumb like anyt’ing. Hch! Hch! De rebbeh’s gonna be med on him.”