Like an archeologist in a dream, I opened a dark closet where all the used up and forgotten relics of the past had been slowly accumulated, year after year, and stacked in layers of dust up to the ceiling. The place began to stir. At my first touch, flakes of dust as large as moths rose up and swarmed into the light, almost blinding and choking me as I dug through the pile. Then, near the bottom, I pulled out a box containing a few torn and moldy books; a baseball mask; the rind of an old basketball; a set of yellow report cards bound in a shoelace, recording my Work and Conduct for eight years; a sphinx; a pair of roller skates, the wheels clogged with rust; a bag of marbles and a bag of ball “bearions”—and, buried under all this monumental junk, a little blue book with the word “Diary” stamped in faded gold on the cover.

This was the diary I had kept in 1932 when—as stated on the first page—I was ten years old, four feet five inches tall, and weighed sixty-four pounds. For almost a whole year, until my resolution drained away, I had chronicled the ins and outs of everyday life in a heavy, Palmer-methodized script, the cuneiform of that period, primitive and rough-hewn, as though each page had been laboriously incised in granite. It was hard to decipher my own words; and as I read again the names of my old friends, the record of my trials at school, and those ancient feuds and struggles for survival on the block, it was even harder to believe that the author had once been me.

The dust in the closet had made my hands so black and my clothes so grimy that I looked—“Look at yourself!”—as if I had been rolling marbles in the gutter all day long. But who cared? The “I” in the diary was buried in this tomb. Bent over and squinting in the darkness, absorbed in myself, breathing the dust, I lit a match to see by as I turned the pages, and then, slowly, remembered how many times before going to sleep he would make a tent of the blankets and huddle inside, secure and alone, writing down the day’s news with the aid of a flashlight. . . .

Suddenly I burst inside and see him in his tent crouched like a gnome over the diary: he turns, he looks up, and with the same start we recognize our self. Was that me? Is that me? An enormous waste of time lay between us. And as he, on his side, began to realize that all the breaks, cross turns, and incalculable possibilities of being had led only to me; and I, on mine, saw myself as if in caricature reduced to what he was, essentially the same, we both had to turn away our eyes. I remembered his daydream visions of himself: in the center of the baseball diamond, pitching flawlessly, the bright point of everybody’s eyes; or breaking through the forest at dusk clad only in a leopard skin, bringing home the day’s kill for his mate; or at the controls of a space ship rocketing out of this world. . . . His eyes seemed to accuse me: How could I have become what I was? I felt his contempt and flushed, angry at myself. And I answered: What did we have in common anyhow? He was dead twenty years—he had never really been me—he was nothing at all.

I exhaled him like a breath. But, in the next breath, as we both knew, I had to take him back, feeling him stretch and expand inside me and his own voice speak through mine.

_____________

I

Reseloutions

1. To gain five pounds more.
2. To be good in school.
3. To be good in hebrew.
4. To get a football.
5. To kiss parents every night.

When I set this down on January 1, 1932, my life had already become entangled in petty snarls of all kinds.

First of all, I was in the midst of a feud at school with a big kid called Harry Adler, who came from a tough neighborhood, and every day during lunch hour I expected the showdown; also, I had been left out of the football team on the block; also, I was quarreling all the time with my older brother, Robert, and mad at my two best friends, Normy and Manny; also, I was way behind in my club dues at the Hebrew school and threatened with expulsion; and last, and most important, the end of the term at P.S. 6 was approaching, and doubt that I would be promoted made these final days seem long and taut with anxiety.

But I could always escape to the movies.

Jan. 1—Wanted to go to the Daly teathre, but Frankenstion was playing so I wanted to go tomorrow to the Chester.

Jan. 2—Went to see Frankenstien but the Chester was too crowded so I couldn’t go. The whole block went to see the picture and they all got in except me. I couldn’t go to my aunt Becky so I stood home doing nothing.

Jan. 3—Made a second attempt to see Frankenstein but they charged me 50 cents and I only had 30 cents so again I couldn’t see the picture. Papa and Mama went to see Papa’s brother in Brooklyn but they told us we couldn’t go with them.

Jan. 4—Today is the first day of school after the Christmas holidays. I got my report card and darn 3 times straight I’ve got a D in conduct and broke my New Years Resouloutions. I think I’ll get a C next month.

Jan. 5—In school Harry Adler wanted to have a fight with me, but outside he changed his mind. Wanted to go to the library for my brother but when I came there the library was too crowded.

Then, at last, the breaks began to go my way.

Jan. 6—Had delicatessen for dinner. Enjoyed the meal for it was a salami sandwich, Tangerine and soup. Seen Frankenstein. Think it was the best mystery picture ever seen except, I think, “Dr. Jeckl and Mr. Hyde.”

_____________

A short digression on the movies: Inside the Temple of Baal on a Saturday matinee, waiting for the show to begin, there I am in the pit with Manny Mortz on one side and Norman Gebrowitz on the other, a brown paper bag clutched in my hand (containing a chicken sandwich, a pickle, a piece of sponge cake, a tangerine) and hunched forward impatiently in my seat while from all sides I hear the ballyhoo of kids just arriving and searching for friends and friends of friends—“Hey Black-eey!” “Hey Yoush-keey!” “Hey Ben-jeey!”—distant bleats, whistles, Tarzan yells, and shouts of reunion, wrangles over seats here and there and calls for witnesses, the nervous insect cracking of nuts increasing as the moment draws near, and then, abruptly, darkness, a reverent hush, and the projector flashes upon the screen and spreads my eyes with light.

It’s the jungle serial! A tremendous yell of exultation bursts from the audience, diminishing gradually to a moderate uproar. When last seen, the good guy had been stabbed in the back, bound with barbed wire, spat upon, and thrown into a den of lions, and some of us doubted that he would get out. Now, just in time, he wrenches himself loose and escapes in a streaky blur while the camera is focused upon the lions. We nudge each other. The scene shifts to the headquarters of the rats. Hearing the news, they begin plotting again, sneering and guffawing in a nasty way. Spies and counterspies shuttle back and forth. Meanwhile, the good guys just horse around their camp and crack jokes as though nothing had happened. Another trap! Beside himself, Manny Mortz stands up in his seat and shouts: “Watch out! Look! They’re right behind you!” No use. The good guy—or his best friend or the girl—again is caught in an even more “heart-rendering” predicament, and the chapter ends. There was no catharsis here—who needed it?—only pity and terror unrelieved week after week.

Before the murmurs from the audience had died down, the feature would begin. On Saturdays this was usually a Western starring Tom Mix and his horse Tony, Hoot Gibson, Ken Maynard, Tim McCoy, et al. There was something about these ritual struggles between the Good Guys and the Bad Guys flickering in black and white upon the screen that made their shadows seem even more real to us than the concrete of daily life. We followed them with a zeal that was almost holy. Of course, we liked other movies, such as Our Gang and Laurel & Hardy and Chaplin comedies; murder pictures; war pictures; spooky pictures; pictures with horses, and dogs like Rin-Tin-Tin—just as long as they weren’t love pictures or those endless courtroom melodramas that came in with the Talkies and were all talk, talk, talk. But Westerns, naturally, were the best.

Simon De Courcey, the villain (we recognize him by his mustache and his pompadour) pours himself a shot of whiskey, ruffles a pack of cards, and sneers at Tom Mix. At the sight of his evil face, many stand up to curse the rat, and with such passion that only the metaphysical bar of the screen kept them from plunging right inside. The plot unreels. There’s De Courcey again with two of his cronies sneaking into the barn, where Tom Mix, his hat off, is politely talking to the girl. This is too much. Someone always has to leave for the toilet at this point, walking backwards up the aisle so as to follow the action as long as possible. They go in, they do it, they’re out in a minute. But even in that brief time, The Chase might already have begun and the whole theater become vaster, darker, more turbulent, with such an abrupt and mixed-up hullabaloo of oohs, ahs, boos, and bahs coming in rapid succession from the audience as first Tom Mix and his pals, then De Courcey and his cronies, flash by across the screen, firing wildly back and forth, that all are indistinguishable.

If no one could hear a word or a gunshot beyond the first couple of rows, it didn’t really matter. A large part of the audience would remain for at least two revolutions of the program, learning every word and gesture by heart. Ushers would still be hunting for kids at night sitting quietly and stealthily among the adults.

Months, even years, later, while huddled around bonfires in the street on a winter evening baking “mickies,” or just shmoozing in the schoolyard during recess, or hanging around the candy store of an afternoon with nothing to do, the highlights of this movie and other movies would be recalled and relived, having passed into the collective id of the block, mixed with our own dreams and daydreams, the shadowy stuff of our selves.

For this reason (to get back to the Diary) it was a cultural necessity for me to see “Frankenstein” before the year could officially begin.

Jan. 8—I cleaned the rust from my sled but there is no snow. A new kid moved around the block called Arnold Alper and nobody likes him. Read a book called Modern Art and the Evening Graphic.

Jan. 9—Got up early and finished the book “Dr. Doolittle’s Circus.” Didn’t want to go out and stayed in the whole day. I comed mama’s hair: first I made some like a rose out of the hair and second of all I made curls.

Jan. 10—Today I quarelled with Normy which was a better fighter, Waker or Smeling. Manny and me were going to an alley but a dog didn’t let us go out of the alley. A girl on the block cut herself badly and is getting stitches.

Jan. 11—Teacher said we are going to have promotion tests tomorrow. She appointed me monitor of the board erasers. Mother bought me shoes and pants. Went to Hebrew and had club. Told joke about what everybody does at the same time. Grow older.

Jan. 12—When I was going to school I found a penney I looked around and found another penny and a dime. Had geography promotion test. Bought hot-dog with Normy. Normy bought a knish. I wanted to buy a pickel with Normy but his father didn’t leave him.

Jan. 13—Went down for board erasers and cleaned them. First time I never read my composition was today. Went to Hebrew and Mr. Mendelson read us a chapter. Did English and Hebrew homework in schools. “P.S. Am glad I did it.”

Jan. 14—Went to school and put on two different colors on two different stockings. Teacher said there would be a history test tomorrow. Went with Manny at night to P.S. 67. We tried to get in but we didn’t. Had bath tonight.

Jan. 15—Went to school and Harry Adler had to be put back to 4B for a few days. Monday we have construction. Mother and Father looked in Robert’s diary and found out that he had a fight with a guy called Fat Leborwitz. Robert is a little cranky today.

_____________

The revelation that my own mother had been secretly reading my brother’s diary, and mine too—why not?—filled me with a kind of primitive dread. I felt threatened at the ka, the innermost moat of my individuality, my self. For if this were allowed, then all the minor victories won grudgingly and painfully over the years—what I would wear, what games I could play, what friends I could have, what I would eat (I won’t eat soft-boiled eggs)—all would be sacrificed.

To keep the diary out of her hands, I went over all my private hiding places around the house. I considered stuffing it behind the tubes and coils of the radio, under the mattress, behind the large framed picture of my grandfather in the bedroom, until, finally, I found the perfect plant. It was a deflated basketball, a huge and leathery pumpkin growing casually in the closet, and there I hid the diary and prayed that it would remain undiscovered.

One more good reason for hiding it was this: my last weeks in Class 5B3 were turning nightmarish, and I didn’t want my mother to find out.

Jan. 16—If anyone is reading my diary, YOU MAKE ME SICK!!! I’m not going to write from now on.

Jan. 18—Today I woke up late and went to school. I got on the late line but sneaked in on time. Went to Hebrew and had club. Didn’t pay club money.

Jan. 19—Went to school and spilled chalk sawdust over the whole closet. Teacher made me clean it up. Played with everybody 3 ft. to germany. Wrote in brother’s diary by mistake. He is writing this now while I am dictating.

Jan. 20—Went to school and had an English test. Teacher didn’t let me be monitor of the board erasers. She picked Harry Adler. Robert was trying to be good to me so I should go to the library and get his card.

Jan. 21—Went to the library for my brother and got him his card. Had a substitute for teacher today. Played socker and kicked 2 goals on Sam M. Bought the Mirror after a hard quarrel and read it.

Jan. 22—Got back my Geography test paper and it was 63. Forgot to do some arithmetic examples so the teacher said I might stay in but I didn’t. Drizzling all day today.

The weather was out of Macbeth—it seemed to be always drizzling. Sometimes, after a long, gray, miserable day at school, I would dream that I was sitting alone in an empty classroom with Miss Moss, my teacher, who pointed her rod at me like an old witch with a hazel wand and said: “Milton, you’ve had D in conduct every month and you’re going to he left hack. . . .”

My troubles in Class 5B3 had started during the first week of school. Miss Moss, who had a reputation for being very strict, had decided to read aloud a poem in the back of the speller called “How Do I Love Thee?” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

“How do I love thee?” she began, looking us all straight in the eye. “I love thee to the height” (she raised her arms high overhead) “and depth” (she lowered them till her fingers touched the floor) “and breadth” (squinching her eyes and mouth like a dog about to howl and flinging her arms violently outward) “my sou-oool can reach!” and I couldn’t help it, I laughed right out loud.

But nobody laughed with me. Miss Moss began to mutter to herself and agitate back and forth in her chair like an old rabbi, gathering speed, and then she suddenly stood up and quivered, so mad she could hardly speak. When she came to, I was given a note to my mother and sent down to the principal’s office, where I had to stay in an hour after school.

From that time on, whenever something suspicious happened in class, I was immediately accused, gaffed, hung with a demerit, flayed with extra homework, so that after a while I just gave up. Besides, I told myself, who wanted to be one of the snitchers and teacher’s pets who hung around her desk all day like girls? It was too late to change, anyhow. Once, while Miss Moss was out of the room, I took a quick look at my page in her conduct book and my eyes turned red with all the zeros and X’s and questions marked there in indelible ink.

Jan. 25—Went to school and read my composition to the class it was about the Planet Mars. In Hebrew Mr. Mendelson read us a chapter. We had club. But he put me outside so I didn’t pay club money.

Jan. 26—Went to school and copyed my composition on good paper. Teacher gave me a conduct slip to take home. Went up the school and watched some handball games.

Jan. 27—I felt a little sick so I stayed home from school. Went with Manny and asked for passes to the movies. We got two. Skated in street for half an hour.

Jan. 28—Bought the American and read it. But Mama didn’t want me to buy the Evening Graphic. Got another conduct slip. Wrote todays diary tomorrow because I forgot to write it today.

Jan. 29—Went to school and teacher put me outside and told me to call my mother. She chucked me from calling. I mean being monitor of my row. Robby snitched that I didn’t pay Hebrew club money and spent it on candy.

Falling through an inner space for five days, I yearned and stretched out for the week end, almost desperately, the way a trapeze artist in mid-air clutches the flying bar.

Feb. 1—Went to school and Harry Adler told me that he is going to 6A4. Teacher didn’t call for mama. But she kept me after class so I came late to Hebrew and had club. I paid 2c. It was rainy the whole day and in the night there was hail.

Feb. 2—Teacher put me outside class till three o’clock. I missed my drawing. Went with Manny to Washington library because he wanted to join it. I doubt that I’ll get promoted.

_____________

That was my blackest day. I saw myself coming home with my final report card—left back—forced to remain for five more stifling months with kids from a lower class, now my equals, repeating the same lessons day after day and in the same room, most probably, with the same lousy view over the girls’ playground, stuck once more with Miss Moss, while all my friends went on to brighter and higher grades.

And my mother—what would I say to her? Could I say: “Mom, I’ve just been left back?” No. I would say: “Mom, the whole class has been left back.” No. I would say: “Mom, they’ve decided to make public school nine years instead of eight, so 5B is really. . . .” No. It was no use. How could she believe that her own son, her image, her hope, her Phoenix, in short, her me, whom she had extolled and apotheosized up and down the neighborhood, could possibly—the thought was unthinkable—be left back?

At that time I would have done anything—study two hours a night, keep neat notebooks, hand in my homework the next morning, never come late again. . . . I was desperate. But, knowing myself, I knew that all this homemade and humble piety would grow stale a week after I had been promoted, and I would have to eat it.

Feb. 3—Went to school and Priccilla Willonson had the promotion sheet so she told me I will be promoted to 6A4. I went to Hebrew and for the first time in a month I did my homework. Went skating at night.

Feb. 4—Went to school and teacher told me that I had 88 in arithmetic. Played basketball with Normen and his cousin. Me and Normy stood Melven and we won him 12-8. When I came up I had very wet socks and shoes.

Feb. 5—Brought Bomba the Jungle Boy at the Giant Cataract to read in class because it was last day of school. I got promoted to 6A4. My marks were as follows: Work—B, B, C, B and Conduct—D, D, D, D, C-. Manny is left back. And Normen is in 6A3.

With what can I compare that day? The joy of Jonah when he was heaved up from the whale’s belly was no more than mine as I left Class 5B3 and Miss Moss behind me forever and emerged with hundreds of others into the fresh air of the street, crowing and shouting, tearing up old notes, conduct slips, homework, test papers into confetti and letting the wind blow it around and around the school yard. I felt regenerated, lost and found, my self self-made once more, shining on the world as if the sun itself, that great “I,” could look back in amazement at the night it had come through.

The street that afternoon was bulging on both sides with activity, and as compendious in its own way as that huge picture by Breughel in which hundreds of kids are depicted in every game and gambol known throughout the ages, each one given its little place on the canvas. There were games of Ringalevio, Kick the Can, Leap Frog, Johnny on the Pony, Hop-Scotch, Three Feet to Germany; tense. Skelley games were going on within the squares of the sidewalks, and marble contests along the gutters; and box-ball, handball, slugball, punchball, and stickball games were in progress, each set of players oblivious to the others. On the curb exchange in the street, “cockemamies” could be traded for checkers, checkers for “immies,” “immies” for bottle caps or political campaign buttons or the lids of Dixie cups, depending upon the season and the fluctuations of supply and demand. And out in the courtyards and alleyways, where their mothers could keep an eye on them, troops of girls were skipping rope and playing potsy (their hopscotch squares drawn bold over the palimpsest of our skelley) while singing their age old matrimonial runes:

Cinderella dressed in yella
Went uptown to meet her fella. . . .

and

If you don’t like my apples
Then don’t shake my tree;
I’m not after your boy friend-
He’s after me. . . .

and

One, Two, Three alarey,
I spy Mrs. Sarey
Sitting on a bumbleary. . . .

and so on.

Meanwhile, roaring in and out of all this chaos, came kids on roller skates. Just as you have to walk barefoot in the country to get the feel of the earth, so to appreciate the pavement you have to put on skates.

Extensions of me like the little wings on the ankles of Mercury, I would clamp them to my shoes so tightly that they bit through the leather and almost into my flesh, then roll off in freedom down the street, clicking over and over the regular grooves in the sidewalk; or grinding, with short, quick strokes, over the rough corrugations of granite pavement that drilled through your bones and made your teeth chatter; or over cobblestones, walking and picking my way painstakingly one leg at a time, like a skier toiling up a slope; or, from the heights, slaloming with a zigzag course around the bumps, fissures, posts, and manholes; or, best of all, gliding downhill with gathering speed over smooth, gray, free and easy blocks and blocks of slate. . . .

No part of the skate was ever wasted. They could be attached to a heavy board nailed to a soapbox and made into scooters; the wheels could serve as pucks for hockey games; or the “ball bearions” taken out of their sockets and used as marbles. But before the wheels were thrown away, they would be ground down further and further to a fine shade, a memory, and even now I can hear them roaring in some deep and narrow tunnel of my mind.

Feb. 8—Skated with Normy and Manny to P.S. 67 but we couldn’t get in. Lefty told us we might get in on 57, we went there but they told us we’ve got to join a club. We joined it. We pay 50c a year.

Feb. 10—Went to school and had Miss Harris. She is a very strict teacher. Me and Sambo wanted to study together but couldn’t. Got back my old job as monitor of the board erasers. I had a fight with a boy called Erwin Cohan and bet him up.

Feb. 13—Went to school and forgot to do the rest of my homework. My teacher got angry and said that she’ll show it to Miss Redmond. Played sallugee with Manny and I always took his hat and ran away. But Manny had a cold so I gave him it.

Feb. 16—1 rode to Washington library on the Southern boulevard trolley where I quit. I don’t have any time anymore. My uncle from Brooklyn came to visit me. Robert played him the mandelion and it was good.

Feb. 19—Went to school and teacher asked Herman Fobb if he ever had a “D.” He said No. Well said the teacher expect one this month. Played tag with Manny and everybody on the block played also. Saw James Cagney in “Taxi” at Chester.

It was while this picture was being shown that some kid from the Quanee, Jrs., a social club, let loose a boxful of moths he had smuggled inside. They all flew straight up into the projection beam, their enormous shadows flickering on the screen like dragons and throwing the house into a panic. Though caught by an usher and kicked out, his exploit became almost legendary around the block, discussed with awe years afterward.

Feb. 21—Today I looked through opera glasses for the first time. The other side makes things small. Went to Hebrew and Mr. Mendelson said he might give me a part in a play.

Feb. 24—When I gave Miss Harris the homework which my brother did yesterday she said it wasn’t my homework and gave me a conduct mark. I went with Manny, Normy and the new kid Arnold to P.S. 67. But we couldn’t get in.

Feb. 26—Went to school and the teacher chucked Erwin Cohan from being assistant monitor of the board erasers with me. Had race with Jacky and won by two boxes. I should have won by more. Had race with Paul Robbins and lost. Studied part of Topele-tu-taru in play.

Feb. 27—Went out to the street for 20 minutes, the rest of the time I stood in my house reading Jerry Todd and the Oak Is. Treasure and the Rover Boys at Colledge. Mr. Mendel-son gave Morton the part of Berele the thieve.

Feb. 28—I was reported by Mr. Kressel today and teacher gave me a conduct mark. Wanted to go to atheletic center but I didn’t because it was closed and I bought a ticket. Robert is sick.

Feb. 29—Went to school and got 95 in my geog. test. I met Normy and we skated to Crotona park. I played on a seesaw and I swung on a swing. I read a book called Over the Ocean to Paris.

_____________

I went, I saw, I said, I played, I read, I made—I, I, I, I—who were all these braided, pompous, regimental I’s identified with me, an endless parade of being, and where were they all marching, anyway? As I look back now, it seems that a certain line of action (perhaps imposed by memory), and a pattern of change, too slow to have been perceived at the time, were emerging from this sensual mishmash like my own fate.

What was most important: my friends and I were beginning to outgrow the street. Long ago, when I was very young and still enclosed by the Family Circle, the street had seemed immense, full of danger, mystery, adventure. But now, somehow, it had become cramped and criblike.

Younger kids—kids wearing their first pairs of knickers—were taking over. Whenever we found them playing on our street we would kick them off or play “sallugee” with the ball, tossing it back and forth over their heads until they began to whimper or, out of nowhere, their mothers appeared. In spite of this, they persisted, even grew bolder, more and more came around, and, in the end, we ourselves were the ones who had to leave.

During our expeditions at night on skates and on foot, we had penetrated other neighborhoods like our own and become aware of the immensity of the Bronx—that mysterious borough built like a Chinese puzzle of blocks enclosed and fitted in other blocks, each one self-contained, with its own circles and inner circles of kids, its social bars, radiations, and cross-connections of status, forming a complex and psychophysical geometry.

Some of these blocks, we discovered, had even organized clubs. The members wore bright two-toned jackets emblazoned on the back with names like The Quanee, Jrs., The Bronx Panthers, Crotona Kings, the Black Dukes. . . . And when we learned that these jackets had been obtained by selling tickets in the neighborhood for raffles—raffles which never had to take place—we decided definitely to form a club of our own.

March 1—Went to school and teacher made me stay in till half-past four. I sold some tickets for the help of the poor jews in Poland. Played ringelevio with the block and talked about a club.

March 2—In school teacher gave us a piece of paper explaining hy we should keep our city clean. Wrote the Star Spangled Banner yesterday but I studied it today. Went to a wedding where Aunt Gertie married somebody.

March 3—Went to a play rehearsel and because there wasn’t a lot of kids Mr. Mendel-son said it will be tomorrow on 12 o’clock. I had a big fight with Robert up the school. I think I like Manny better than Normy.

March 4—Went to a rehearsel and didn’t bring my part. But I knew how to say it so it didn’t matter. I played buttons on the street and came out winning a lot. I won 10c in buttons.

March 6—Two new stores opened at the same day a dairy and a stationery store. Went to movie and saw Edward G. Robinson in The Hatchet Man. The name of the club is the Blue Falcons.

March 7—Went to school and gave in 2c for a picture frame which will decorate picture of Georg Washington. Traded Jackie The Rover Boys on Great Lakes and Rover Boys Winning a Fortune for Through Space to Mars and The Iceberg Express.

March 9—Went to see a movie after school and saw Lena Rivers and a cowboy picture. When I came back I played for buttons. I trusted 2 cents from the candy store man and bought buttons. I won 15 buttons and paid candy store man. The first meeting of club is Friday.

March 10—Walked all the way to Washington library and saw a long line in front of a bank that wasn’t moving. While playing as sociation Morty threw a stone on me. The meeting is tomorrow.

March 11—The Blue Falcons held their first meeting today and it stinks. Heard Eddie Cantor and Joe Penner on the radio.

_____________

The meeting took place at night in a basement storeroom filled with discarded cribs, kiddie cars, baby carriages, rocking horses—relics of a past as ancient then as now. The light of a weak bulb dangling from the ceiling cast huge and despondent shadows on the wall. This room, ever since we had learned how to break open the lock on the door, had become our secret hangout. We cleared a space amid all the junk, passed a couple of cigarettes around, and sat down in council.

Murry Aaronson was there, the hub of our circle, a slick, self-anointed big shot who had grown up somewhat faster than the rest of us and already wore long pants. There was something sticky and greased-down about Murry’s personality. He was the one who always chose for sides in a ball game and settled fights, although he really wasn’t as good a player or fighter as he thought. But, so far, no one had challenged him.

Also, Sheiky Levenhart, Murry’s right-hand man. Sheiky had as many flares and angles as a diamond and loved the limelight, so some part of him was always shining in your eyes. As the acknowledged wisecracker, scop, and gleeman of the gang, he had an ever-ready repertory of “dirty” limericks and “dirty” jokes, whose real meaning even he could hardly guess, but at which we all laughed anyway. Without warning, Sheiky would rip “homers” on the flies of our pants, light hotfoots, grab the ball during a game and play “sallugee”—anything for a gag. You had to watch out for him.

Also, Berny Lerner, our Ajax, quiet, heavy-set, a little stupid, maybe, but the best player on the punchball team since he could hit a ball more than two sewers. Next to him sat his kid brother Sidney, a fat, whining, useless, and redheaded kid, accepted reluctantly by us only because of Berny.

Also, mean and moody Morton Malin, who, only a few months before, had been laughed at and pushed around, excluded from all our games, and tagged with nicknames like “Loving Cup” (because his ears stuck out) and “Water Boy” (because he used to pee in his pants). But so quick and unpredictable were the ups and downs of status on the block, the seesaw so unstable, that the Mama’s Boy might suddenly rise, while the big shot, whom everyone had looked up to, come down hard to earth. Morty had proved himself by a couple of fights on the block; and now, we thought uneasily, he was waiting to pay back some of the old grudges.

Also, Seymour Manheimer, sometimes called “Sambo,” a kid with no special jump or talent, but whom everybody liked. He was a good sport; he always paid his way; he owned the football. Sambo’s father sometimes took us to Yankee Stadium and to the soccer games at Starlight Park, so that we didn’t have to sneak in through the fence.

Also, Norman Gebrowitz and Manny Mortz, my best friends. Normy was fat, fair, and soft, while Manny was wiry, kinky, and tense as a spring. I had known and loved them both as far back as I could remember. But Normy, who was a year and a half older than I, seemed to disdain everything that went on on the block. He was always talking about what he wanted to be when he grew up, as if he could hardly wait. Manny, on the other hand, hated to dress up and KEEP OUT, to walk not run, gabble with girls, to behave himself and fetch and carry at the orders of adults. When he was dressed up, he looked miserable; but in his sneakers, with his hands and facy grimy, his knickers torn at the knees, then he was himself. My own feelings were on his side.

Also in the cellar were a few shadowy, half-forgotten figures who sat against the wall in the back (as in the back of my mind) like bas-reliefs, and have never come into the round.

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The meeting began with a roll call that lasted for an hour. Then Murry Aaron-son took charge. By unanimous vote, the club was officially given the name we had all agreed upon beforehand—the Blue Falcons. Next, we voted that each member of the Blue Falcons had to pay ten cents dues per week; a fine of five cents would be imposed for each week’s dues in arrears; and, finally, that anyone over four weeks behind could be kicked out of the club by majority vote. After these preliminaries, Murry was elected chairman and temporary treasurer of the first week’s dues; and Sheiky, who wanted the job, was voted recording secretary to take the minutes at each meeting.

Murry made a short, brilliant speech about what we would do with all the dues and the money gained by selling raffles in the neighborhood. There would be parties every month, excursions to the Palisades, a football, soccer ball, and a basketball for the team, a baseball mit for everyone, and, above all, a jacket for each member in purple and gold with the name the “Blue Falcons” in large red letters on the back. When he finished, everyone was in a glow of enthusiasm.

Then up stood Morty Malin and asked why, if Sidney Lerner could get in the club, shouldn’t everyone else’s kid brother be allowed to join? What made him such a big exception? And what right did he have to get one of the free mits, not to mention the purple jacket, since he couldn’t play ball anyway?

The mood suddenly turned sour. Then Sheiky stood up and said that Sidney ought to pay double dues for his jacket because he was twice as fat as everybody else. This got a big laugh, the tension relaxed somewhat.

But Morty’s wedge had widened the social chasm separating the “big guys” from the “little guys,” the older brothers from the younger brothers, and all the lesser chasms in between. Distinctions of rank, protocol, seniority, and precedence were kept as strictly on the block as at the court of Louis XIV.

To settle matters, Murry declared that Sidney would be allowed to attend meetings and pay dues, but be put on probation and not be given a jacket until all the older guys had theirs.

Then Berny Lerner stood up and said, in that case, his brother should pay only five cents dues per week. What’s more, he added, Sidney had just as much right to be in the Blue Falcons, and was almost as old—even if he couldn’t play ball so good—as Sambo or Manny or Mil. . . .

As soon as I saw the way things were going, I stood up. Speaking for Sambo and Manny as well as myself, I reminded them that I was one of the first to suggest forming the club, meeting in the basement had been partly my idea, and that I played third base on the punchball team. What did age have to do with it? But—I turned around and faced them all—if that’s the way they felt about it then we didn’t have to belong and they could keep their lousy jackets.

In the silence that followed, with no one trying to stop us, or at least plead with us, we walked out.

March 12—Went down and it started raining so I went back and read a book. Went to the Fox Crotona and saw Richard Barthemless and the dawn Patrol and Joe E. Brown in Firemen save my child including 8 vaudeville acts.

March 13—I stood in the house because no one was in the street. Sambo came up my house and I played him a game of checkers and won. He says I should come back to the blue Falcons.

March 14—Went to park to trail Robert and his friend Harold but lost them. Manny gave me back my Ballyhoo and Hooey magazine. Almost had a fight with Sheiky. They think I can’t beat him up.

March 15—Went to school and got a conduct mark. We also got a new geography. I missed taking spelling (because teacher sent me down to get her ink and when I came up it was over. Went to Hebrew with Mom and heard a man crack jokes and give a lecture.

March 17—Went to school and found out I had a new substitute. She was Mrs. Hacken-burg. Saw Tarzan the ape man in the Lowe’s Paradise. This is the first time I ever went to that theater.

March 19—Robert told me today is the first day of spring. A dumb kid called Heshy came around our block. We took him up the school yard and dressed him naked. Played handball and won 21-19.

March 21—Robert is writing this report because papa put medicine and bandages on hand. Climbed school roof and Robert saw. He told parents but they did nothing. Cried when I had medicine put on.

March 22—Robert wants new long pants but he couldn’t get them today. He will tomorrow. Papa put glycerin on my hands but it didn’t hurt like yesterday. Robert is writing for I have bandages on hand.

March 23—I didn’t go to school today because I had 100% fever. Manny came up my house and told me that Sidney Lerner was kicked out of the Blue Falcons.

March 24—Didn’t go to school again today because I had a cold. Mamma bought me a Hooey magazine and I read it. Went with mamma and got new shoes and a pair of pants. Robert got a blue pair of longeys.

March 25—Didn’t go to school again because I had to rest. Had rehearsal in Hebrew and know it by heart. Gave Morty his part which he lost and I found.

March 26—Tonight was the play and it was very good. Had a big delicatessin dinner and all the relatives were there. Got a watch for a present.

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What we had been “rehearsling” and “rehearsling” in the shul so long finally came to pass. It was a Miracle Play based on a story from the Bible, and, even more miraculous, the lines themselves were spoken in Hebrew, “the original language of the Holy Ghost,” as Coleridge once called it.

After a brief period as a Talmud scholar a year before, during which I sat for an hour each day cheek to cheek with an old rabbi who had a beard like steel wool and kept picking his nose and shaking back and forth as we chanted the words together, I was taken out and sent to this shule, a branch of the Arbeiter Ring. Here our parents hoped we would learn Yiddish, a smattering of Hebrew, the meaning of the great traditions, in order to bridge the cultural gulf between us growing steadily wider, wider and deeper, perhaps, than the one between them and their parents. . . .

When I think back, there was something weird and haunted about that night, the place alive with spirits, as if a swarm of ancient kings and prophets shrunken in time to the size of bees and with buzzing names like Homan, Nebuchadnezzar, Jehoahaz, Ahasuerus, had flown there from another world. They were our witnesses. But at the time I could make no connection between the tribal wars of Israel and the struggle for power and status then going on on the block.

March 28—Went to school in the afternoon and found out that I missed a Geog. and Arith. test. Teacher sent me a postal card. Went to Hebrew and the new learner in place of Mr. Mendelson is a dope.

March 29—Went with Sambo and sold raffles from Murry’s club. We sold almost $3 worth. I might join the blue Falcons again and pay back dues. Manny doesn’t want to. They will get their jackets Friday.

March 30—1 went and played nuts in Hebrew. I won about 25 nuts and I came in with 15 nuts. Mr. Mendelson read us some stories. I practised punchball with the block. Sidney Lerner won’t get his dues back from the club.

April 1—Today is April Fool day and I had a lot of fun playing jokes on the kids. Practised punchball with the block and I hit a home run with a man on I and second. The Blue Falcons got their jackets today.

April 2—The Blue Falcons played a punch-ball game with the Quanee Jrs. and we lost 15-9. When the game was over Murry Aronson had a big fight with Berny Lerner. The whole block is talking over it.

That day the pavement shook, there were tremors and then more tremors, augmented by the first, and by the time they subsided the whole social landscape was unrecognizable. . . .

The Quanee Jrs., hearing that a club had been formed on our block, challenged the Blue Falcons to a “money game” in punch-ball. Every player on both teams was to put up ten cents, and the clubs $1.00 each, winner take all. But we expected to win since the game was to be played on our own street, angled like ourselves, where we knew by heart which way the ball bounced.

Early on Saturday morning the Quanees arrived to practice, and we looked them over. They had power. Every man on their team could hit the ball two sewers, while only Berny Lerner, or maybe Murry Aaron-son, could hit that hard for us. On the other hand, we knew where to place the ball and how to slice the corners past third and first with sharp grounders. The Blue Falcons were still confident as we got ready to play.

After depositing the money with the candy-store man, we cleared the street of paper and garbage, marked the bases in fresh chalk, and all together pushed the parked cars out of the infield. Then we told them the ground rules. The Quanees had brought along their own umpire, but, rather than accept him, we chose to have none at all. This meant that any doubtful play would be decided by the team with the loudest and most righteous indignation. But both clubs agreed to let Sidney Lerner keep score, and he (boxed off the innings in chalk of different color, blue for us and red for them.

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The first three innings were scoreless and went by very fast. Then, in the fourth, they scored two runs on a ball that bounced off a parked car in the outfield for a double, and a long fly that Murry Aaronson muffed for a home run. But we came back in our half and got three runs on successive singles and a triple by Sheiky. And so the lead passed back and forth, until, by the end of the ninth, the score was tied, 9-9. For five tense extra innings, Sidney Lerner drew a red goose-egg for the Quanees and a blue goose-egg for us, a red and then a blue. . . .

At the top of the fifteenth, the Quanees, aware that our infield was playing deep, hit three well-placed grounders through first and short and filled the bases. Murry then called time out for a conference. Against all our advice, he made the decision to pull in the outfield for a possible double play. So, when the same kid who had hit the homer before came up, where was Murry laying? He was laying in, right behind second. Naturally, a long, high fly went over his head for another home run, clearing the bases, while all the Quanees whooped and yelled. They scored two more runs before we could get them out; and we went down in our half of the inning 1-2-3.

After it was all over, the Quanee Jrs. collected the money and went back crowing to their own neighborhood. But the box score—15 to 9—remained on the sidewalk, spread out large in red and blue chalk. Murry Aaronson ordered Sidney to rub it out. And Sidney, as a matter of course, was already scraping with his shoe on the first goose-egg when his brother stepped in.

“Let him rub it out himself,” Berny told him.

Everybody turned and watched. There was a ringing silence.

Then Murry said: “What’s the matter, Berny? You think you’re a wise guy, or something?”

Berny said it to his face. “Rub the score out yourself. You yourself, you lost the game.”

Murry began to peel off the two-toned jacket of The Blue Falcons, which he had worn all afternoon even though it was very warm. “Here, Sheiky,” he said, “hold my jacket.”

Sheiky held it for a moment, smelled it for a gag, and then—this was the pay-off—let it fall in the gutter! But Murry was too mad to see what had happened.

“Say that once more, Berny, I’ll rub the score out with your face.”

Berny said it again.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They stood there face to face, vibrating, only an inch apart.

Then Murry touched Berny, Berny pushed Murry, Murry pushed Berny even harder, and the fight was on. We formed a circle around them. Murry landed a wild right on Berny’s chest, danced away and got set to throw another, but, before it landed, Berny charged and socked him again and again, got a headlock on him and wrestled him to the ground, where he still kept socking him. When we saw that Murry’s nose had started to bleed, we pulled them apart.

It was Berny who had to be held back. Murry just stood there and swallowed his defeat, breathing hard, his eyes watery, one cheek blue and red where it had been rubbed against the chalk scoreboard. When he saw his jacket lying in the gutter, he turned and stared at Sheiky for a long moment, then picked it up without a word and went home.

Murry had lost face. Everyone on the block had seen him beaten up in a fight, humiliated, forced to back down. It was as if a tribal king had fallen, someone from whom we all derived our status on the block; and mixed with our awe and pity for him was concern for ourselves. We sized each other up: Whose friend is he? Can I beat him in a fight? Will he take my place on the team? For until someone else could take over and reestablish order in the gang, none of us could feel secure.

April 4—Went to school and got a “D” in music. I didn’t have no pen so a girl lent me one. Went selling stamps at night to help the Jews in Poland and came back very late. Papa scolded me.

April 7—Murry’s club voted Murry out of it because he thanks he’s the whole works. He wants his dues back. I went to the movies and saw The Beast of the City and another picture. I came home 11 o’clock at night.

April 8—Manny says he’s moving to Brayton Beach in Brooklyn. Went with Manny and played nuts in Hebrew. I won about 25 nuts and I came in with 15 nuts. Mr. Mendelson read us some stories.

April 9—Wanted to go to a hike with Manny today but he had to go to his aunt so he couldn’t but he will go tomorrow. Manny is moving next week. I had a pillow fight with Robert and Pop heard and stopped it.

April 12—Played handball with the whole block up the school yard and won 5-2. Murry had a big fight with Sheiky because he said he threw a stone on him. Sheiky says he’ll get even but he’s full of it.

April 13—1 went to school and the boys had the girls a history match. There were 13 boys left and 5 girls. The boys started talking so the teacher made us sit down and the girls won.

April 14—I went to the movies with Manny, Sambo, Normy and my brother. We saw Wild Women of borneo and the Cohens and Kelleys in holleywood. Took a hike in the Bronx woods with Manny. I played with Manny the whole day today.

April 15—Murry Aronson is back on the Blue Falcons. He had to pay $1.00 to join it. Went to school and the substitute was there. We had a arithmetic, history, spelling and geography test!!!

April 17—Manny gave me a book called Lefty O’ the Bush. I gave him my Bomba book. Manny is going to move tomorrow. I mean he is supposed to. I took a long walk with Manny at night and talked.

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Manny, my best friend, Manny and his whole family were leaving for good, moving out of the Bronx, across Manhattan, a thousand miles away into the depths of Brooklyn. I couldn’t believe it. I might never see him again. And I felt, hard in my throat, the unswallowable lump and catch of mortality. . . .

That night Manny and I cut our thumbs and sucked each other’s blood. No matter what happened, we swore, we would see each other again. We exchanged books. We made plans for a hike to the Palisades. And yet we both knew—and knew the other knew—that time and ten thousand blocks of New York would surely come between us.

April 18—Manny moved today. I helped him with the moving van and his mother gave me a nickle.

Why I liked Manny

1. Because he was a good fellow.
2. Because he was no trailer.
3. He laughed at every funny thing.

Manny was my best friend

April 19—Went to school and we still had the substitute for a teacher. I had an arithmetic and history test. Saw Will Rogers in Buisness and pleasure and Douglas Fairbank Jr. in Union Depot. Very warm today.

April 20—I went to a sader at Uncles Hilly’s house and gave my cousin Bella a book called Wonderful tales. I wrote Manny a letter and sent it. Sheiky came up my house today. Very warm.

April 22—I took a hike with a new kid called Arnold. We went to the Bitanical gardens and came back by way of the Bronx Park. I got lost there but finally got out. When I came to the lion house I couldn’t find Arnold so I went home alone.

April 23—Manny sent me a letter today from Brooklin. The Blue Falcons broke up and all the guys want back their dues. Murry wants to make a new club. There are a lot of moths today. I never saw so many.

April 24—The moths are still here and I killed them.

It was a living snowstorm, something unheard of, a blizzard of moths that turned the sky suddenly gray, drove people indoors, stopped traffic on the streets, steadily coming on and on in gusts and flurries of wings all day until by nightfall, as if they had been waiting for a signal, they swarmed over all the street lamps in the neighborhood and put them out, crawling and flopping on top of one another in layers of white pulp an inch thick. Even with all the shades pulled down that night I could still feel them out there, peering and probing, and occasionally a soft thump, thump, thump on the window would wake me up. And the next morning strange birds of all kinds would casually take off from their perches in easy dives and snap one, two, three on the wing without breaking the arc of their flight. The laziest cats would strike them down with their eyes half-shut. And we ourselves, we beat at them with rolled up newspapers, squashed them underfoot, packed them like snowballs, tore off their wings and stuffed them in milk bottles. And still the moths kept coming on.

They stayed for two days and nights, and then as abruptly as they had come, they left. Some of us thought they had been blown in and then blown out by winds from the south; and others said no, the moths had been ripened too soon by the warm weather, and birds had driven them from the park; (but within a week everybody on the block had forgotten about it. Had there been any prophets and augurs around, as in the great days, such a freak of nature would have been enough to start wars, foment revolutions, and make or break kings.

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