because she had no book of personal rules. And everyone else seemed to have oneâtattered, thin, half-forgotten, but available.
âDo you do that often? Harold said.
âDo what? The sun was warm here and she sounded sleepy.
He hesitated. Do you take many lovers? he asked.
âWell, what business is that of yours! said Myra, jumping to her feet. She sounded more playful than angry, but as they continued to walk, she said, more quietly and slowly than usual, You think Iâm a slut, donât you? And suddenly her tone was ugly. All you think about is the suffering masses. Contemplating my disgusting little life makes you feel pure! It gives you a thrill to think about people like meâwell, thatâs pretty despicable, donât you think? You donât have the nerve to live your own life, you just like scaring yourself with mine!
Her words wouldnât stop. Harold was strangely elated, then troubled. He thought she might be right. He was stodgy and stupid, and of course womenâheâd known this foreverâlaughed at him.
âMyra!
âI donât know why I waste time with you and your stupid books. Youâre so superior, but what you know isnât everything!
âI know that. Iâm not superior. The path they were on had taken them out to Fifth Avenue again. As she spoke, he felt thickâphysically thickâmuffled in his clothes and his fleshy body, kept from thinking or acting. How could someone like him presume even to think about people who worked with their hands, people like his fatherâto think about what they needed, what society should do for them? He stared at Myra. He had not looked at her, not really, in all this time theyâd been sitting and walking side by side. Her hair was cut shorter lately. She wore a brooch at the neck of her white blouse. She squinted because it was late afternoon and she faced west, toward the park. Her squint made her face seem childlike.
âYouâre good. Youâre serious, he faltered.
âSerious? Youâre damned right Iâm serious, Myra said. She glanced at her wristwatch. Late, she said. So long.
âWait, said Harold.
âI have to go, she said. She touched his arm as if to get a faster start, crossed Fifth Avenue against the light, and hurried down the cross street. Harold watched her go, then walked north for no reason, turned, turned again.
6
O ne night Artie said, Enough already.
âEnough of what? It was November, still 1938, and he and Harold were walking fast after a quick supper at an automat, walking to the next subway stop because they were in the middle of an argument.
âEnough of this women laughing stuff.
âBut I just told you, Harold said. She ran away.
âWho cares? The meshuggeneh shikse! Let her run, Artie said. First you take advantage of a girl, then you dump her, and finally you figure out that everybody should feel sorry for you. Itâs disgusting.
âThatâs not the way it is, honestly, Harold said.
âYeah, I know, I know. They were quiet for a block or so, as often happened when they disagreed.
âDid you see, Holland may take some of the refugees? Even more predictably these days, after silences Harold talked about Germany and the Nazis. Before heâd begun worrying about the Jews, it had been Spain, and Haroldâs shame that he didnât want to enlist. My mother would die if I enlisted, he had often said. But thatâs no excuse. Half the Abraham Lincoln brigade is guys whose mothers feel just the same way. The truth is I donât want to.
Artie hadnât wanted to either, but he didnât feel ashamed of not wanting to.
They came to the station. Artie had to go to Brooklyn, and Harold lived a few stops downtown. Itâs late, Artie said.
âIâm going to keep walking, said Harold. Talking about women, Artie had gotten nowhere with him, as usual. Everything came back to the Jews in Europe. As
âDo you do that often? Harold said.
âDo what? The sun was warm here and she sounded sleepy.
He hesitated. Do you take many lovers? he asked.
âWell, what business is that of yours! said Myra, jumping to her feet. She sounded more playful than angry, but as they continued to walk, she said, more quietly and slowly than usual, You think Iâm a slut, donât you? And suddenly her tone was ugly. All you think about is the suffering masses. Contemplating my disgusting little life makes you feel pure! It gives you a thrill to think about people like meâwell, thatâs pretty despicable, donât you think? You donât have the nerve to live your own life, you just like scaring yourself with mine!
Her words wouldnât stop. Harold was strangely elated, then troubled. He thought she might be right. He was stodgy and stupid, and of course womenâheâd known this foreverâlaughed at him.
âMyra!
âI donât know why I waste time with you and your stupid books. Youâre so superior, but what you know isnât everything!
âI know that. Iâm not superior. The path they were on had taken them out to Fifth Avenue again. As she spoke, he felt thickâphysically thickâmuffled in his clothes and his fleshy body, kept from thinking or acting. How could someone like him presume even to think about people who worked with their hands, people like his fatherâto think about what they needed, what society should do for them? He stared at Myra. He had not looked at her, not really, in all this time theyâd been sitting and walking side by side. Her hair was cut shorter lately. She wore a brooch at the neck of her white blouse. She squinted because it was late afternoon and she faced west, toward the park. Her squint made her face seem childlike.
âYouâre good. Youâre serious, he faltered.
âSerious? Youâre damned right Iâm serious, Myra said. She glanced at her wristwatch. Late, she said. So long.
âWait, said Harold.
âI have to go, she said. She touched his arm as if to get a faster start, crossed Fifth Avenue against the light, and hurried down the cross street. Harold watched her go, then walked north for no reason, turned, turned again.
6
O ne night Artie said, Enough already.
âEnough of what? It was November, still 1938, and he and Harold were walking fast after a quick supper at an automat, walking to the next subway stop because they were in the middle of an argument.
âEnough of this women laughing stuff.
âBut I just told you, Harold said. She ran away.
âWho cares? The meshuggeneh shikse! Let her run, Artie said. First you take advantage of a girl, then you dump her, and finally you figure out that everybody should feel sorry for you. Itâs disgusting.
âThatâs not the way it is, honestly, Harold said.
âYeah, I know, I know. They were quiet for a block or so, as often happened when they disagreed.
âDid you see, Holland may take some of the refugees? Even more predictably these days, after silences Harold talked about Germany and the Nazis. Before heâd begun worrying about the Jews, it had been Spain, and Haroldâs shame that he didnât want to enlist. My mother would die if I enlisted, he had often said. But thatâs no excuse. Half the Abraham Lincoln brigade is guys whose mothers feel just the same way. The truth is I donât want to.
Artie hadnât wanted to either, but he didnât feel ashamed of not wanting to.
They came to the station. Artie had to go to Brooklyn, and Harold lived a few stops downtown. Itâs late, Artie said.
âIâm going to keep walking, said Harold. Talking about women, Artie had gotten nowhere with him, as usual. Everything came back to the Jews in Europe. As
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