Inhumanity Knows INo Boundary
A Short Story
by PHILIP BAK*
The writer is an under
graduate at Yeshiva Uni
versity who has already
published short stories.
(A SEVEN ARTS FEATURE)
40
The crowds and the shouting
were now behind them. So also
were the water hoses, police
dogs and billies. A '59 Dodge
sped out of racially-torn Belle
ville for the county-seat 40
miles away, but its passengers
sat rigidly silent as their car
negotiated the narrow streets
of the desolate Negro quarter.
Behind the wheel sat a young
Negro in his early twenties
whose alert eyes, below a knit
brow, were fixed attentively
on the road ahead. As they
reached the highway he finally
spoke.
“I tell you. Josh.” he said to
the man sitting next to him, “I
don’t know if we’re doing the
right thing. If there’s any
trouble back there, we
shouldn’t be an hour and a
quarter away.” His tall slim
companion of the same age
eyed him nervously.
“There probably won’t be
any more trouble tonight,” he
answered, “and if we don’t get
this guy to a hospital soon,
he’ll die for sure.” As he said
this, he shifted his position to
gaze at the unconscious figure
slumped on the back seat.
Blood was splattered over the
boy’s entire shirt and soaked
the handkerchief which they
had wrapped around his
wound.
As he w T atched the labored
breathing. Josh couldn’t help
remembering the same teen
ager, a half hour before, when
he had attempted to break up
their rally.
"If Milt and 1 hadn't grabbed
him," he thought to himself,
“he probably would’ve died
right there.” Then turning in
his seat, he wished aloud.
“I hope we make it in time.”
Milt didn’t respond and they
drove on in silence. Several
miles out of town they turned
off the main road.
"This way’s faster.” Milt
said, “I used to drive out this
way years ago with my
father.”
"You lived out here?”
“Oh. no! We weren’t allowed
out hero. My father worked on
the Adams farm. Of course,”
he added bitterly, "that was
before they fired him for being
a troublemaker. After that we
didn't have enough money for
such luxuries as 19411 Chevies."
“Is that what got you into
this business?”
"No. I was too young then.
It started recently when I got
back from school, 1 told my
Mamma (my father died about
5 years ago) that I wasn’t
gonna be just another teacher.
At first, I didn’t join any of the
local groups, but I g&ve.them
all a hand with their work.
Then when you people came
down last year, I figured that
it was my turn to put myself
out, so I joined up ”
Josh listened intently. All of
a sudden Milt laughed out
loud. “Hey,” he said, “isn't it
funny that here we are two
people wmrking together in
this gosh darn medieval town
for six months, and it isn’t un
til now—when we’re taking
this guv to a hospital—that we
get to talking about ourselves.
Well, let me turn the question
on you. What brought you to
this bastion of enlighten
ment?”
“I guess that it first began
when I was at college. A group
of us worked in Harlem for a
while. . .”
"Well." Milt exclaimed,
“that’s an education for a nice
Jewish boy.” He smiled. “Let
me guess. Your mother was up
set because you weren't going
to Medical School and your
father couldn’t figure out why
you wouldn't enter the busi
ness.”
“My father was killed in
Hungary in 1945,” he said
quietly.
Milt’s grin dropped. “I'm
sorry." There was a pause.
“You know us black people,
we think we got exclusive
rights to the world’s problems.
I’m sorry. Was it the Germans
who killed him?”
“No. he managed to live
through the concentration
camps. The Communists de
cided not to try his endurance.
They just shot him ”
Daylight began to recede in
favor of approaching evening.
The car sped past the harvest
ed fields and their small
shacks, many of whose inhabi
tants were seated about theii
front stoops.
“How does he look now?"
Milt asked.
"I think he’ll make it. How
much farther do we have to
go?"
“Not much. Say, why do you
think the cops refused to come
and get him when we called?"
“I don’t know. Maybe they
thought we were bluffing, or
maybe they just didn’t give a
damn and figured they’d rath
er stay out of the mess.”
“What a bunch of bastards
they are! If I could ever gi"
my hands on one. . .”
“Well it doesn't pay to har
The Southern Israelite
