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Overview
These nineteen stories follow the paths of men and women, immigrants, minorities, and the poor, suffering from injustice and inequality. Written in the 1940s, Fast’s clear-eyed and lively tales examine a world reeling from war and plagued by social unrest. With stories set in New York City, Europe, and India, this collection shares a remarkable global vision. Written during the rising Communist scare, Departure is a defiantly leftist portrait of a complex and ever-changing world. This ebook features an illustrated biography of Howard Fast including rare photos from the author’s estate.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781453234846 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 12/13/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 204 |
| File size: | 5 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Departure
And Other Stories
By Howard Fast
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1949 Howard FastAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-3484-6
CHAPTER 1
Departure
In a way, it was like I had become old overnight, and I woke up heavy; I woke up like a man suddenly with a family, two kids and a wife, and rent to pay, but I had none of those things, only a feeling that this, for me, was the end of a lot of things, crazy drinking sprees and whoring and foolish bats of one kind or another, all the things that made them grin at me and put up with it, too, whatever it was, the way you put up with a clown. "Clowning," they would say, "that sonovabitch is always clowning." But they didn't mind.
I shaved carefully and thoroughly, and Laurencon, who had a four-year-old girl at home, made some crack about how she did as well but without a blade, just a timeworn inept crack, but an indication that it was nobody's lark, nobody's day of grace. "Go to hell," I told him.
"No offense, Sonny."
"To hell with you, Pop. You can't offend me. My mind to me a kingdom is. Age is no achievement; it's just a passage of time."
The trucks were waiting, but I still dressed slowly and deliberately. For some reason I didn't fully understand, I had a relationship with my clothes, the boots I had won at the bandage raffle, the heavy brown pants, the blue ski jacket, the black beret. I had never liked my clothes before, but I liked them now; they seemed to be unusual clothes, and I felt foolish and sticky and sentimental toward them. I even borrowed a clothesbrush from Cohen and brushed them off. It was good for a laugh from everyone who saw me, but I didn't do it for a laugh.
The whole battery was like that. To see them offhand, you wouldn't have known, but as I was with my clothes, so each of them was with one thing or another; and in the thick soup of dawn, they moved with measure and deliberation, as if they were counting out steps to a prearranged dance. I try to think of some of the things that were said, but it was so long ago and I was young. Words don't stick as well as the scent of the damp earth, the sound of the truck motors idling, the pale flash of a spotlight that had overstayed the darkness. These things made a pattern for memory; I suppose Lossowski was telling us to step lively and get moving, but I don't remember for sure. I do remember that the truck we got into was already half-full of Croats, big, sleepy-eyed, blond men, who grinned at us and pushed together to give us plenty of room.
Our truck roared into life, and we drove out of the hospital compound.
"Good-by, Denia," Mac Goldstein said thoughtfully and respectfully. Then he handed me one across the behind, and told me, "Nice to go home, huh, kid?"
"Home is where you make it." Parker, an Englishman, used to say that, and I picked it up. I would pick up a lot of words and phrases then; maybe that's the way speech grows when you're a kid. Sometimes, I used them right, but mostly wrong, I suppose, and it may be that they stand out across all that bridge of time for that reason. A word, a phrase, or a sentence is flung away, and how are you supposed to remember, even if you have taken an oath and are up before a formal court of the law? If I were under oath and answering, I don't know but that I'd perjure myself anyway.
How old were you?
I don't know—twenty or twenty-one.
You don't know? Surely you know. Surely you can think back and calculate. You are an intelligent and thoughtful human being.
Am I?
What date was it?
It was the fourteenth of January, or the fifteenth, or the sixteenth. They don't figure a date by a date, you know; the way they figure—when my first-born saw the light, or when I threw a fistful of dirt on the grave of my blessed mother, or when the cow calved, only there were no more cows then, or when the shadow of the church was ragged instead of straight and heat lightning of four colors flashed in the east; but not by a calendar. So I can remember that before we went into the barracks at Valencia, where they all were, the men of all nations, French and Slavs and Croats and Serbs and Germans and yellow-haired Northmen and dark-haired men of the South, the Italians and the Greeks and the Crete men—before we went into the great barracks there, I saw a Spanish girl who was more beautiful than any other girl that lived, slim and with a lissome stride, and she walked past and was gone, but I remember her and that was the day it was, and I have been in love with her ever since but never saw her again.
I remember too the color of the Mediterranean sky that evening when we went down to the boats.
It was the same day?
Well, I think so. It seems to me that it was the same day. You see, I was in love with the girl, and thinking about her, and it seems that I was only in the barracks for a while, because all I remember, aside from the fact that there were many thousands of men there, was that the Greeks were singing a song. I remember that because I always thought what strange people the Greeks are, not like us or the British or the Germans, either, more like the Spaniards, maybe, and they never seemed to grow tired; it was always beginning for them; wherever they were, it was beginning, a very hopeful people. I remember the song because it was a song of love, and I was in love, in a way of speaking, and the sky over the harbor was like that, pink that turned violet and made me want to cry. You know the way guys are; they kept ribbing me because I had stopped clowning; it wasn't fair to them, I should have kept on clowning, but I couldn't; and then when we marched onto the boat, I began to cry; but it was almost dark and nobody noticed.
It was an excellent operation, smooth and without a hitch, just the way the League of Nations and the Congress of the United States and the Reichstag wanted it to be, except that the boats were old and dirty and rusty and nobody was very sure about what kept them afloat. We marched onto our boat and down the steps into the hold. Before we went down into the hold, I looked back at the beautiful city, Valencia, the jewel, the ancient one. How do I recall what I thought then? I was a kid, a tough, hard-boiled, wisecracking kid who would live forever, but I was tenderly in love and my face was wet with tears, and I must have thought profoundly and deeply. Or perhaps I thought of nothing but good-by.
If I thought good-by, it was the way you do when you are very young, and every place you are you will be back again, so dry your tears of sorrow. The French have a good word for it, but there is no word in English that is just right. There was a Welsh miner there from Pittsburgh, who was a captain with the 129th Brigade, who were Yugoslavs, and a hand grenade had torn open his loin, his testicles, his stomach and his legs, yet he was able to walk; and he stood at the edge of the hold, watching the darkening city, the jewel city, the bereaved one, but said nothing. I don't know what his good-by was. There were thirty-five or forty of us who were Americans, and we went down into the cargo hold, a big, empty place at the bottom of the ship, and all around us there was warmth and odor from the men of many nations, the sick, the wounded, the stretcher cases too, and they clamped on the hatches so that not an ounce of light shone through, and the ship put out to sea.
I can tell it as a dream, but not really as a memory. When I lie at night and I am afraid to die, as all men are, except now and then when there is a thing worth dying for, I think of it, and it's like a balm for a troubled soul. But what is memory as against the facts? And, believe it or not, there is no memory for terror, for there in that hold men couldn't breathe or sleep or move, but I do not remember that anyone was afraid. But maybe my memory is poor and because I was a kid, they were good to me, asking me:
"How's it going, kid?"
"Good enough."
"Well, take it easy. Easy does it."
"Look, lay off me. I'm all right."
"Sure, you're all right, kid, you're all right."
But where do you stow your thoughts when your thoughts tell you that the fascists must know, and they will come out in a fat-bellied German battleship and pick off the old tubs like a hunter picks off ducks? The Slavs made a song; they are the loneliest people in the world, and yet they are never lonely the way we are lonely, and when they sing a song there is a memory of all the hurts they knew and their fathers and their grandfathers. I like our songs better. We sang "Digging Our Way to China." Then we sang "There's a Long, Long Trail a-Winding," which is the most beautiful song in the world, and the saddest, too, as I remember, for someone in love and lost of his love. I don't remember anything else of particular importance, and I suppose we slept.
It was seven o'clock in the sunny morning when we arrived at Barcelona, and for some strange reason our arrival there is confused in my mind with all the old newsreel pictures I have seen before then and since of troops coming home by ship and departing too; but really I don't suppose it was too much like that. But there were people on the dock, and I heard afterwards that Negrin was there. I don't remember him, but I remember André Marty; it was the first time I had seen him, and the guys pointed him out.
They had let us up on deck with the sunrise. A submarine was escorting us, and after I saw it, I felt a lot better. I don't remember us talking about anything else but the submarine, even when we entered the bomb-wracked harbor and saw the sunken ships. And the bigness of Barcelona was different from the loveliness of Valencia. We hold Barcelona, so I told it to the nameless girl who had walked past me with such a lissome stride. We hold Barcelona, and, by God, we will hurl the fascist back into the hills of Portugal, and there will be a victory parade in Madrid, and as I march down the Avenue, I will see her and she will recognize me.
You remember well, and you remember badly?
It's that way, I'm sorry, some little things you remember and some big things you forget. I remember a melon rind floating in the water.
By eight o'clock we were all of us disembarked. The trucks for us were drawn right up to the docks, and we climbed into them. They took us to the barracks, which were on top of a hill outside of Barcelona. I don't know what the hill was called, or what was the name of the barracks, but it was a barracks in the old Spanish style, foursquare, with a compound in the center, and there were balconies all around four or five stories high, a place big enough to hold all of us, and we were thousands. There were all the Internationals who were left; there were the men of the nations. Someone—I don't know who it was—but someone said to me:
"Put it in your memory, kid, put it in your heart."
"My heart is full," I said, speaking in Spanish. "My heart is full and flowing over. I don't want to go home. I have no home, I am the homeless one." You say things in another tongue, and they do not sound foolish, as they would in English. Whoever he was, he answered so softly, "Vamos juntos, vamos juntos—" And I thought of the thousand and one times I had wanted to go home, whimpered to go home, pleaded to go home, wept to go home, a frightened kid and no soldier, but now I was a soldier and no land to fight for, no people to give me arms and say: Stand here, stand and no further.
They called us out and we filled the balconies and listened to Marty speak. Then Negrin spoke. Then the whole place broke into the "Internationale," in fifteen tongues, and that is a memory, for when had it happened before and when would it happen again? And we were going away; we were leaving Spain, who is like a beautiful woman you love, and we were going away.
It could have only been a day or two later when the thing happened. The fascists had reached Barcelona, you understand, and we had moved up to a place called Cassa d'la Selva. It was the way out; it was the end already, and there were only the Cubans and the Mexicans with us, and we had stayed too long; we were guests departed but lingering, and we had given away to the Spaniards left behind our guns, our leather belts, our boots, and whatever else was of value. We ate and we slept and we waited, and rumors filled the air; but the strongest of all the rumors was to the effect of Barcelona being handed over to the enemy, the pig with a voice, the dog without even a dog's soul, the fascist; given up and no struggle; handed over and no struggle; a gift for the devil. I lay in the sun, and my love lay beside me. I told someone then that I was in love. With whom? With a Spanish girl whose eyes are like black olives and whose lips are like poppies. They would have been fools to believe me, but we believed anything then. It was my first love and my last.
You remember what you want to remember; a man's past is part of all the past, and everywhere little gates are carefully closed. Only when it is all finished, our way, will we open all the gates. It was two or three or four days after we were there that the big meeting was called in the one theater the town boasted. Seven or eight hundred of us crowded in there, full and overfilled and cloudy with the smoke of our brown-paper cigarettes.
This is it, kid, someone who knew and was on the inside.
He spoke in Spanish, "You men of the Internationals, amigo de corazon, you men of the Internationals who are my comrades, my brothers-in-arms, listen to me! We will defend Barcelona to the death! We go back!"
That is also a memory. I cried again; I put my hands over my face and wept, but I haven't wept since then. Through all the rest, I was dry-eyed. No more clowning, and the kid was not a kid any more. Sitting and listening to the speakers, one after another, telling how Barcelona could be held and made a bridgehead for all free men, I made a disposition of myself. Then we went outside into the dry sunlight of Spain.
The people from our land, America of the lovely name, the free land over the mountains and over the sea, went to a carpentry shop, and there some volunteered and others said they would go home. The volunteers would not go home any more. They stayed together, talking and making arrangements for the battery; I didn't have anything to say, and someone asked me:
"What is it, kid, worried?"
"No."
"Take it easy, kid. Nobody is brave."
"I'm not brave," I said. My childhood was over, youth and adolescence and the sprouting of the weed as juices run through its stem, and the wonderful, beautiful conviction that you will live forever while all other mortals die; manhood is a benediction as well as a curse, and the calm inside of me was life's repayment. It was a fair exchange. "I'm not brave," I said. "I want to stay here."
You see, it was to defend Barcelona to the death, if necessary, and most likely necessary, and you made your own choice. The great bulk of the Internationals were gone, but you had stayed with the leave-taking. You had overstayed; then sleep, and tomorrow we will break bread again.
What else do you remember?
Well, then, I also remember these things: the children who played in the streets, they the inheritors, and I was grown now and saw them as children. The fresh-baked bread we had for our dinner—oh, honored guests. We shared our bread with the children, who made us at home as you do when a guest is no longer a stranger. There were also things to be done, arrangements for the new guns, which were coming down from France, arrangements for officers and for a table of organization, arrangements into the sunset, the sweet, cool night. I was bedded with a cobbler's family, and we sat before bed with a glass of wine and a piece of sausage.
Partake, oh cousin, and tell us about how it goes in the South. Is there death in the South? Will there be victory or defeat? Will the fascists be driven back?
A su tiempo.
Cunning words from an old fighter. You are one of the new ones, a machine gunner?
An artilleryman.
Drink the wine and don't spare the sausage. When will Spain see better men? A glass of wine makes the couch easy.
And then I slept until a whistle wakened me, and this was it, was it not? We formed into ranks and then onto the train, and nobody really knew except—rumors; but after a while we understood. The train was going north, not south. Barcelona would not be held; the last of the Internationals were going away. This was a night train for the border, salute and farewell. Somewhere, men were afraid; somewhere men lost heart and hope, and they had opened the doors and said: Take this maiden for yourself, she with the lips as red as poppies and the lissome stride. I had only hatred and contempt for those whose eyes were wet now.
"What is it, kid?"
"To hell with you! To hell with you!"
And when the train stopped in the morning, we were in France.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Departure by Howard Fast. Copyright © 1949 Howard Fast. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
- Dedication
- Contents
- Preface
- Departure
- The Old Wagon
- The Shore Route
- Onion Soup
- An Epitaph for Sidney
- Where Are Your Guns?
- Spoil the Child
- The Little Folk from the Hills
- Who Is He?
- The Suckling Pig
- The Rickshaw
- The Gentle Virtue
- Dumb Swede
- The Gray Ship
- Three Beautiful Things
- The First Rose of Summer
- Wake Up Glad
- The Police Spy
- Thirty Pieces of Silver
- A Biography of Howard Fast