The Children by Howard Fast Page B

my shoes. Even if they are falling to pieces, they will do for another day. Anything will do for today, a day full of sunshine and gladness.
    My father has already gone away, but when I come into the kitchen, my mother stands and looks at me. Since I fell off the roof the day before, it seems that my mother cannot see enough of me. There she stands, big, ugly, and smiles at me. Why can’t I love my mother as I should?
    â€œGood morning, my heart,” she says to me in Yiddish.
    â€œHullo.”
    â€œIs my man ready for his breakfast?”
    â€œYeah—”
    â€œCome, then.”
    I bolt my food. Indeed, it seems that I can never be out of the house quickly enough in the morning, when the sun is shining. Before I go, she holds me and kisses me.
    â€œTake care of yourself.”
    â€œYeah.”
    I go down the stairs, through the dim hall, and then I burst out into the street, stopping, suddenly, rolling myself in the warm sun. Nobody on the block; but who would be there this early? So I sit down on the stoop to bask in the sun.
    Everything is fresh and clean that early in the morning. Do you know how that is? After I have sat there a while, I begin to feel full of the sun, and I stretch like a cat. I am sleepy again.
    I watch Shomake’s store. When he comes out, I will call him over, and tell him about the garden. You see, about this garden: if it is not in one place, then it is in another. The garden is somewhere, and even if I don’t quite believe that, I will tell it to Shomake.
    For Shomake, the night was long and bitter, and often he woke, to stare into the darkness and whimper. Once, his mother woke, and heard him.
    â€œPeace, my child,” she said in her warm Italian.
    â€œI will never play again.”
    â€œNow—what nonsense is that? As sure as I live, I will buy you another fiddle. Am I too poor for that?”
    â€œNo, I’ll never have another fiddle.”
    â€œFoolish child, sleep.”
    And she could hear him tossing and turning and twisting and whimpering.
    â€œChild—child!”
    â€œYes—I am all right, never fear.”
    â€œAre you trying to cheer your mother now? Only sleep, and tomorrow I will have another fiddle for you.”
    â€œYes.”
    But the night was long, endless, dreary, and out of the darkness figures rose to torment him. Trembling, he crossed himself, drawing the blankets high over his head. Would sleep never come? And when sleep came, it brought dreams. And in his sleep, they took his fiddle from him. As often as he had another fiddle, it vanished.
    He saw the gray light creep into the room. “Wonderful light,” he thought. Lying quietly, he saw his father rise, dress, go into the shop. Later, his mother called him.
    â€œHo, heart of hearts, do you see that the morning has come, after all?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd you see how foolish the fears of the night are. God takes care of the night as well as the day.” Only, in her heart, she knew there was no money to buy him another fiddle.
    â€œMother—”
    â€œYes, my dear heart?”
    â€œThe new fiddle will be like the old one?”
    â€œYes, yes, my dear heart.”
    â€œYou will buy it for me? You are not deceiving me, mother mine?”
    â€œDeceiving my child?” His mother laughed, and then she bent over the stove to hide her face.
    â€œFiddles, cost a lot?”
    â€œNow are you one to worry about that—or is it my worry? Since when has my proud son taken it into his head to worry about money matters?”
    He looked at her, and he managed to smile. Slowly, the smile spread over his small face, grew then, and presently they were both looking at each other, laughing.
    â€œEat, my child,” she smiled.
    Outside, the sun calls to all. The sun was so beautiful, that for a while he sat in the shadowed shop, just looking at it. Then, hesitantly, he opened the door, stepped outside.
    The warm breeze crossed him,