Henry Roth - Mercy of a Rude Stream - The Complete Novels

“They’re gettin’ the hooch out,” said Farley. “Hooch,” what a funny word; they both laughed.

Ira’s anxiety subsided a little; it was easier now to place Pop’s note on Mr. Lennard’s desk. He scarcely glanced at it. School was school — Ira went to his seat: Routines were routines, almost as if they were in a plaster cast — like that Golem in the movie. Gee, you’d never guess. The attendance roll was called. With noncommittal countenance, Mr. Lennard slipped Pop’s note between the leaves of the wide attendance book and flattened the gray cover. A few minutes later, when the gong rang to summon the school to the Friday assembly, Mr. Lennard stepped out into the hallway, and with strict, impersonal mien oversaw the deportment of his class as they filed out of the classroom and marched through the hall toward the staircase. Everything tended toward the customary; the customary leveled out everything.

Still, a certain imprint showed through, like that of a lingering dream, as they pledged allegiance to the flag, sang “The Star Spangled Banner.” And seated again, heard Mr. O’Reilly read the 23rd Psalm. How different that was now, different from what it was on the East Side, when he first heard the lady principal read it. Mr. Lennard stood so devotionally, so reverently near the window. Oh, to bring back those innocent days on the East Side, when he thought “my cup runneth over” meant my kupf runneth over. “He anointeth my head with oil,” so of course your kupf runneth over — like Mom’s cottonseed oil — from your head down your cheeks.

On the platform, Mr. O’Reilly was talking about the Russian Bolsheviks, and his face twitched with earnestness as he spoke: The Bolsheviks were evil people; they were dictators; they abolished free speech, free newspapers and meetings; they confiscated anything they wanted; they shot anyone who stood up for his rights; they closed churches and synagogues; they mocked at God. Ira listened, but always with reservations, maybe Jewish reservations, maybe that was the trouble: Mom said the Bolshevicki killed Czar Kolki , Czar Kolki who detested Jews, Czar Kolki who encouraged pogroms, Czar Kolki , the Bullet. For that alone, she kissed the Bolshevicki. What was the use? It was best to forget everything — if you could — not think of who was right, not think of such matters. Like what? Like Civics? No. He hated Civics anyway. Not Geography either. He hated that too. History. Maybe sometimes: General Herkimer wounded and dying but still directing the battle, Captain André, the spy, with the map of the fortress in the heel of his shoe, General Wolfe, General Montcalm, dying in the same battle. That sort of history he liked, but not the Henry Clay and the great Missouri Compromise or anything of that kind. The Bolsheviks were one thing, according to Mr. O’Reilly. The Bolshevicki were another, according to Mom, saying of their execution of Czar Nicholas, “ Gut, gut, verfollen zoll er vie e likt .” Even Pop agreed; Uncle Louie was enthusiastic: A new world had opened up for the worker, Jew or Gentile. But not Zaida; he didn’t believe Communist Russia would make much if any difference to the Jew. Would they let him trade, make a nice living? Everything the Bolshevicki took away from the prosperous Jew. Synagogues were closed. Then what good was it if you couldn’t worship God? Kerensky, Kerensky and the Duma, that was the way the new regime should have gone. But did the Bolshevicki allow it? They drove him out as well as the people elected like those in the United States. So who knew how the Jews would fare?

But you had to think of something: If he could only turn his head and look at Farley, that would make you feel better, but he couldn’t. Fix on the American flag hanging motionlessly over with its staff in its iron sleeve on the side of the platform, the Bible on its lectern, the partitions pushed back to open up the classrooms into an assembly hall, George Washington in profile high on the wall above and behind Mr. O’Reilly. . Sit still, sit at attention, and after awhile, see nothing, hear nothing, think nothing, like the three little brown monkeys in the Japanese store on 125th Street where they made those wonderful rice cakes. . Pop had wanted him to go to work; Mom wanted him to go to school. Pop wanted him to go to work because he was a folentser , an idler, a sloth; Mom wanted him to go to school to become an edel mensh , a refined person. But look what had happened to him already. Mr. Lennard had gone to college; he was an edel mensh . But look what he did. Tried to pull both of them off right in the eighth-grade homeroom. You had to think about that. And why did it happen to you, that and so much else? It happened to you because of the one who cherished you so much and you clung to: Mom. She moved you to Irish Harlem, so she could live in the front, yes — and she acquiesced that day, that day, that day, that morning, that morning, she acquiesced: oh boy, oh, boy. O-o-oh! “That grin will get you into trouble,” said Mr. O’Reilly. And if he knew what kind of trouble — never mind — and yesterday, Mr. Lennard. So who was right? Who was better? Even thinking about it made him — like he was double: as it did just now: self-despising — and at the same time, stuck to what made him self-despising. Wait till Sunday, oh, boy! Wait till Sunday. Bolshewitskies. Bolshewhiskeys. Who cared, one way or the other?

On assembly days, periods were shortened, made shorter still by little written quizzes, quizzes exchanged with classmates, who graded them according to the right answers to be found in the book or written on the blackboard by the teacher. The quizzes were graded, often grinned at in collusion, and returned. He was just no good in commercial studies, that was all. Even Farley was better than he was in Gregg shorthand, in touch-typing, in bookkeeping. Farley won commendation from Mr. Sullivan, who just couldn’t find words harsh enough to give vent to his exasperation at Ira’s sheer stupidity, his total incompetence at comprehending the rudiments of bookkeeping. Again, he didn’t care. It was always money, money, money. Business, beezeniss . Oh, all the time.

The noon gong sounded at last. At the word “Dismissed,” Ira seized his strap of books and tore down to the basement in the van of the class — then sped out into the street. He hadn’t brought any lunch; no need to: He’d tear open one of those boxes of — what did they call them? Arrowroot — first chance he got. Oh. Tomorrow on the delivery truck, it would all wear off. And Sunday — his pace quickened — Sunday morning, there was Sunday morning. And after awhile, Mom returning with bagels and lox or smoked whitefish. Sunday morning delicacies. Yeh, yeh, yeh. Sunday morning delicacies— Wasn’t he crazy? Wear it off and wear it on again. But then he could run away from it, could run afterward right over to Farley’s house. The whole thing would wear off again, would be absorbed by Farley’s cheeriness, Farley’s buoyancy.

XXV

He turned into quiet 126th Street, westbound. Even from half a block away he could see Murphy’s truck, the old White; but as he approached the side entrance to the store, he spied a forbidding-looking man, powerful, authoritative, posted beside the truck. Impassively, he watched Ira open the door, enter, waver at the sight of still another burly stranger inside. Ira scampered down the stairs: Mr. Klein was there—

“I got here on time, didn’t I?”

“Nice, very nice,” Mr. Klein spoke, munching a sandwich.

“Hey, who’s those guys?” Ira thumbed upward.

“Never mind. You stay right here.”

“You told me already ten times.” Ira shoved his books under the counter.