Free The Children by Howard Fast Page A

Thomas Edison hoped the grandmother would be there, but none of the others.
    She sat knitting, a very old woman, a woman so old that she had forgotten the number of her years. She was good for nothing else now—except knitting. All day long she sat knitting.
    Thomas Edison crept into the kitchen, blinking like a huge owl, his mouth gaping, the dampness of tears still clinging to his cheeks. He saw his grandmother knitting.
    â€œHey, Oloman,” he muttered. They all called her that, and if it had meant anything once, they didn’t know what it meant now.
    â€œDirt and filth,” she rumbled, in her broad brogue, “and dirt and filth. Who has been beating you now, poor addlebrain? There’s no mercy in them for the wonder God has put on you.”
    â€œOllie kicked me.”
    â€œA swine’s son. Wipe away the tears, poor fool.”
    â€œAwright, Oloman.”
    â€œAnd sit down by me.”
    â€œYeah, Oloman.” He sat down next to her, pressing his face to her skirt; and one of her withered hands left her knitting to drop and caress his hair. And all the time she stared straight ahead of her, to a small window where a broad slab of sunlight bit into the room. What an old woman she was, with a fine wrinkled, ancient face! She said:
    â€œTell me of it, poor fool.”
    â€œDey kicked me. Whatta sock Ollie gimme, right on duh backa my head. He says, git oudda here, loony.”
    â€œYes, poor fool.”
    He leaned back, staring up at her with his round face, blinking his eyes. He was straining for thought,, for some sort of deep, wondrous thought that he could put into words. But the words came with difficulty.
    â€œOloman—whattam I loony fer?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m crazy, huh?”
    â€œPoor fool—poor fool, it is God’s wish, and nothing; else but that. But I cannot explain that to you. Dirt and filth here, but in the old country it would have been different. You see, God has put His wonderful touch on you.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œYou’re not understanding me, poor fool.”
    â€œWhat’s God’s touch?”
    â€œMadness.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œHe has made you mad for His own purpose, and for that reason they will torment you—torment you. Dirt and filth.”
    â€œGoddam em,” he muttered.
    â€œYes, my child.”
    â€œSome day … I’ll kill Ollie.”
    â€œNo.”
    He stared with implicit faith at the old woman’s face, while she nodded and stroked his coarse hair. She nodded, muttered, and told him stories of a land of mountains and trolls. Madness is God’s gift. Take heed of, that then, Thomas Edison. Laugh at Ollie. Laugh at Ishky.
    â€œMy mother was mad,” the old woman said.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œShe roamed the bog, screaming to the birds—”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWhen they torment you too much, poor fool, come back to me, and I will give you comfort, such as I know how.”
    â€œYeah, Oloman.”

SIXTEEN

    W HEN WE GOT OUT OF THE CELLAR, OLLIE AND I HAD ALL our plans made for forming the gang, and Ollie was all swelled up with it. We came out onto the stoop, and Ollie strutted back and forth, sticking out his chest.
    â€œGeesus …” he said.
    â€œYeah, Ollie—oney we gotta git more kids.”
    â€œYeah.”
    I sat down on the stoop, and I was feeling important myself, believe me, and I began to think of whom we could get. I was full of ideas about this and that, wondering what I would do in the first fight. Maybe I would be yellow, and maybe I wouldn’t; but, anyway, nobody would beat me up anymore, not with Ollie on my side. Ollie was leaning up against one side of the stoop, rubbing a hand through his yellow hair, when I saw Kipleg.
    Kipleg came down the block, half running, half walking. Mornings, Kipleg worked in a grocery, and he had gotten the job because he looked a lot older than his age. He was big, too,