Free Boys of Life by Paul Russell Page B
Authors: Paul Russell
more of this. Rut I couldn't leave, because where wai there to go? Sammy smiled. Not at me. Not even a happy smile, not even a smile I realized, though tor a minute it'd looked like one.
I saw he needed a shave in an old man kind of way,
"One day," he said, "we were m the street. Mendel and I were in the street and a whole family passed US by. They were hauling shit. It was good money in the ghetto, to haul shit away from people's houses. It gave you money tor food. Rut nobody lasted long because of the disease, so only the most desperate people would haul shir tor money. And here was this family. Mother and father, son and daughter. The parents in front of the cart pulling. The children on the sides pushing. And Mendel was about to take a picture of this, the way he took a picture of everything that was happening, but then he stopped. And I knew what he was thinking. How can I <\o this? he was thinking. Horn can I take a picture of these people in such shameful degradation? And he was not going to take the picture. But the father saw him, and he knew Mendel, everybody in the ghetto knew Mendel and knew he was taking pictures because he would give people pictures to keep. He thought if he gave enough pictures to people some would have to survive the ghetto. And the father who knew Mendel asked him please to go ahead and take the picture. Let them know, he told Mendel. Let others know how we were humiliated here."
"Kill the bastards," I told him. But he only looked at me. I felt ashamed for saying that, like it was completely the wrong thing to say. But I didn't know what was the right thing to say. I was sure Sammy didn't think I could ever understand any oi this, and he wasn't even telling it to me—he was just speaking it out loud where I could hear it if I wanted to.
A couple days after that he took me to the public library. I went because Carlos never took me anywhere, and I thought, What the hell.' Plus Netta was in her opera mood, which I think was driving Sammy as crazy as it was me. The afternoon was one of those cold New York afternoons when the wind blows right through you and trash is everywhere in the air. He took me through this room where people were busy reading and back into the shelves of hooks rill he found exactly the shelf he wanted. It was like he'd memorized where if W8S. He reached up on his tiptoes and pulled down a book, and Standing there in the aisle between the shelves where the light was dim he opened it up and showed me. It was a book i)\ pictures, mostly out <>f foctM like somebody snapped them in a hurry. But there they were, about fitr
□ PAUL RUSSELL
them by Mendel the photographer whose satchel Sammy used to carry. I flipped through those pages, picture after picture, a little freaked out to actually see them, since I only sort of half believed what Sammy'd been telling me. But now he didn't say a word. He just stood there and looked at me looking at the pictures.
I never knew exactly how to behave around Sammy. I always felt a little bit ofF-guard, so mostly I just didn't behave at all. Which is what I did that day. I looked at the pictures and handed the book back to him, and I guess I said something like "That's pretty amazing." He didn't say anything. He didn't seem pleased or disappointed or anything—he just took the book and reached up on tiptoe again and slid it back in the space on the shelf where it'd been. And that was that.
Except what I never told Sammy was—I used to go back to that library from time to time to look at that book. I didn't think I could find it again but I did—I went right to it. At the time it seemed like a good sign of something, but of course you never know. I'd take it to a table where other people were reading, and turn the pages Looking at those pictures. There was this one picture that completely got to me— a kid about my age feeding a little girl some soup from a sort of canteen. I used to study that picture for a long time. I'd find
I saw he needed a shave in an old man kind of way,
"One day," he said, "we were m the street. Mendel and I were in the street and a whole family passed US by. They were hauling shit. It was good money in the ghetto, to haul shit away from people's houses. It gave you money tor food. Rut nobody lasted long because of the disease, so only the most desperate people would haul shir tor money. And here was this family. Mother and father, son and daughter. The parents in front of the cart pulling. The children on the sides pushing. And Mendel was about to take a picture of this, the way he took a picture of everything that was happening, but then he stopped. And I knew what he was thinking. How can I <\o this? he was thinking. Horn can I take a picture of these people in such shameful degradation? And he was not going to take the picture. But the father saw him, and he knew Mendel, everybody in the ghetto knew Mendel and knew he was taking pictures because he would give people pictures to keep. He thought if he gave enough pictures to people some would have to survive the ghetto. And the father who knew Mendel asked him please to go ahead and take the picture. Let them know, he told Mendel. Let others know how we were humiliated here."
"Kill the bastards," I told him. But he only looked at me. I felt ashamed for saying that, like it was completely the wrong thing to say. But I didn't know what was the right thing to say. I was sure Sammy didn't think I could ever understand any oi this, and he wasn't even telling it to me—he was just speaking it out loud where I could hear it if I wanted to.
A couple days after that he took me to the public library. I went because Carlos never took me anywhere, and I thought, What the hell.' Plus Netta was in her opera mood, which I think was driving Sammy as crazy as it was me. The afternoon was one of those cold New York afternoons when the wind blows right through you and trash is everywhere in the air. He took me through this room where people were busy reading and back into the shelves of hooks rill he found exactly the shelf he wanted. It was like he'd memorized where if W8S. He reached up on his tiptoes and pulled down a book, and Standing there in the aisle between the shelves where the light was dim he opened it up and showed me. It was a book i)\ pictures, mostly out <>f foctM like somebody snapped them in a hurry. But there they were, about fitr
□ PAUL RUSSELL
them by Mendel the photographer whose satchel Sammy used to carry. I flipped through those pages, picture after picture, a little freaked out to actually see them, since I only sort of half believed what Sammy'd been telling me. But now he didn't say a word. He just stood there and looked at me looking at the pictures.
I never knew exactly how to behave around Sammy. I always felt a little bit ofF-guard, so mostly I just didn't behave at all. Which is what I did that day. I looked at the pictures and handed the book back to him, and I guess I said something like "That's pretty amazing." He didn't say anything. He didn't seem pleased or disappointed or anything—he just took the book and reached up on tiptoe again and slid it back in the space on the shelf where it'd been. And that was that.
Except what I never told Sammy was—I used to go back to that library from time to time to look at that book. I didn't think I could find it again but I did—I went right to it. At the time it seemed like a good sign of something, but of course you never know. I'd take it to a table where other people were reading, and turn the pages Looking at those pictures. There was this one picture that completely got to me— a kid about my age feeding a little girl some soup from a sort of canteen. I used to study that picture for a long time. I'd find