The Children by Howard Fast

play.”
    Grinning with delight, Ollie swayed from side to side, forcing sound out of the violin. And then Ishky and Kipleg could stand it no longer. Together, they made a grab at the fiddle; all three rolled over the ground, the fiddle clenched between them. For a moment, there was a mass of squirming, screaming bodies; then, one by one, they detached themselves.
    The fiddle lay on the ground, crushed and splintered. The strings were all broken, the sides broken, and there was a great hole where someone had put his foot through the middle of it.
    Ishky stared at it, stared and stared at the poor wreckage.
    â€œNow look whatcha done,” Ollie said.
    â€œBoy, yer dumb as hell,” Kipleg exploded. Whatcha wanna do dat fer?”
    Ishky shook his head, staring at them dumbly. “But I din’—”
    â€œYuh did so.”
    â€œWe sawim, din’ we, Ollie. Geesus, Ishky!”
    â€œNo—no—no!”
    â€œGeesus, whaddya so yella about? We ain’ gonna snitch onya, are we, Kipleg?”
    â€œShid, no.”
    B UT WHAT difference does that make? There, all broken up on the ground, lay the fiddle. But it couldn’t be called a fiddle now, broken as it was.
    What have I done? What will I say when they find me out? Then I will have to confess that I stole the fiddle, smashed it to pieces.
    â€œBut how c’n I bring it back?” I plead.
    â€œLeddit go.”
    â€œSure. Geesus, Ishky—whaddya fraid of, anyway?”
    â€œAw—nuttin’.”
    There is no use picking it up, for even I know that such a pile of broken wood can never be repaired. I let it lie where it is, and with Ollie and Kipleg I walk back to the block.
    They are still laughing and joking between themselves. Well, for them that’s all right; they never heard Shomake play on his fiddle. But what will I do? What will I do if Shomake asks me, about it? If he asks me where his fiddle is, what will I say?
    â€œListen, Ishky,” Ollie says to me, when we are back on the block, “from now on, yer in duh gang.”
    â€œYeah,” Kipleg says.
    â€œWe ain’ goin’ tuh snitch.”
    â€œYeah.”
    But all I want now is to get away from them, and I am glad when they leave me alone on my stoop. Out of all grand dreams, nothing is left—nothing.
    I am Ishky—but I have nothing now.
    I sit in a bundle on my stoop, my head in my hands, and I hardly notice how it is down at the bottom of the block, where the sun is beginning to lower, where all the houses are taking on a rosy glow. Evening is coming.
    Someone sits down next to me. Glancing sidewise, I see that it is Thomas Edison. He has some sorrow of his own, and I don’t mind him sitting next to me. It seems to me again, that there is some sort of a bond between us.
    Warm stone—and warm night air. As the day passes, I am alone, full of wonder and doubt. What are you anyway, Ishky?
    Dreams will not come back—
    See how the sun sets—

TWENTY

    E VENING COMES, AND THE SUN FADES. FROM WHERE I sit, from the edge of the house, a long shadow creeps out into the street; and I know that soon it will be dark.
    Everyone has gone except Thomas Edison, and he sits next to me in silence, his large head drooping forward. He doesn’t speak to me, and I don’t speak to him; I don’t want to speak. I only want to sink into my misery, as deep as I can.
    And then, my mother puts her head out of the window. “Ishky!”
    Why doesn’t she leave me alone? Why must I bring my misery upstairs to her?
    â€œIshky!”
    â€œAwright.”
    â€œRight avay!”
    â€œAwright.”
    Why am I afraid to go upstairs? Maybe I am afraid to leave Thomas Edison, but I don’t know why that should be so.
    From the shadows of the shoe repair place across the street, a small shadow detached itself, hesitated, and then moved over the gutter toward Ishky. Ishky watched it, with large sad brown