#summer streetcar

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Summer streetcar (open windows) on 125th St., 1946. Also vintage: someone helping a mother and small child down from the vehicle.

Photo: Todd Webb via the Todd Webb Archive

[familyabolisher]

going to go tennessee williams mode now. this may take a while as before i can write anything on my best friend and lavender husband tennessee williams i think i should probably actually sit down and read all 784 pages of mad pilgrimage of the flesh

[rabbitcruiser]

The first municipally owned streetcars took to the streets in San Francisco on December 28, 1912.  

[mammothdissident]

[sigalrm]

Architecture & Tram by Pascal Volk

[abouttomakeanameformyself]

Someone New Chapter one: Someone gets hurt

When you go through a breakup, you find yourself drinking your feelings and looking for a place to stay. You stumble into a seedy bar and meet a certain bartender.

Pt 1/10

1/5 🌶️ (references to sex but it's mostly implied)

This is part of a series I will be updating regularly. Tropes include friends to lovers, friends with benefits, roommates, and GrumpyxSunshine. In flirty bartender Remy we trust.

Rejection hung around like smoke in the air as your doc martens thudded down Royal street. The stench and sounds of Bourbon was overestimating to the senses, but that's quarter for you. You've been avoiding the French Quarter since you started at Tulane University five years ago, but most New Orleans natives did. It was loud, crowded, and busy with sad drunk tourists. Given the fact you were sad and mildly buzzed it was actually the perfect hideaway. 

The bounds between Decatur, Canal, Esplanade and Rampart were a personal fucky-Bucky free zone. Plus, open container laws. Since you were old enough to drink now, it seemed appropriate that you could drown your sorrows in $15 of watery sugar booze. The hangover was going to be horrific but horrific enough to jump scare you out of your current while also equally horrific predicament. 

You have been with your boyfriend James since the end of your sophomore year, when a booze infused hookup became a relationship. You lasted through the rest of undergrad, and into Grad school. Until today. Nothing says happy midterms like walking in on your boyfriend of 3 years being straddled by your best friend. 

You passed pissed a long time ago. Right now it was settled into a mix of numbness and shock. The list of things to do was subtly growing. 

Move out

 Get a better apartment 

Get really hot.

Try not to cry in public. 

It sucked. The whole situation fucking sucked. It was still better than forgiving Yelena and possibly seeing her fuck James a second time. It wasn't bad enough that she needed your boyfriend, she had to ruin your rent controlled historic apartment in the lower Garden District. Assholes. 

It was worth mentioning that Kate would at one point or another need to know that her girlfriend was bopping your boyfriend. Kate was 18 months younger than you and felt like a baby sister. Forget your own relationship, Yelena was gonna hurt pookie. That was unforgivable. You didn't want to tell her, but the whole predicament of the fact that she deserved to know. 

The little voice in the back of your head, that sounded an awful lot like James was telling you that you were projecting your feelings on Kate. The other little voice in the back of your head that sounded like your mother told you that you needed to do right regardless of how it relates to you. Both of those voices combined didn't really help you make a decision at all, it was just starting to give you a migraine. 

What started as a walk long walk around campus turned into a streetcar ride to mid-city. Or maybe Magazine street. About 3 hours ago that turned into roaming aimlessly through crowds of tourists. People at the Boot on campus could easily put two or two together, or even worse you could run into the ex-boyfriend and the ex-boyfriend rider. It was all too fresh. You needed a fucking drink, and hiding in hand grenades and voodoo daiquiris with the degenerate middle aged tourists was comforting. Their midlife crisis drinking was a blanket over your own crisis drinking.

The Quarter was jam packed. Especially for a Wednesday. The stickiness of the summer evenings have given way to a warm breeze, with the occasional chill. Louisiana never got cold the way it did back in South Dakota. You had the right wardrobe choice for going on a shame stroll around the city. A pair of mom and James's old Net’s shirt was casual and comfortable.

It was one of your favorite articles of clothing actually. It was soft from years of washing, and hung on your frame perfectly. It didn't matter that you didn't know what a Net even was, you loved the shirt. Well fuck him. He's not getting it back. Sure, holding a shirt hostage was kinda petty, but sliding your dick into your girlfriend's best friend was also petty.  

The vibrating in your pocket was the tell tale sign that people were worried. Or that shirt man was trying to crawl out of the hole he buried himself in. Which happens to be your friend's hol- that wasn't important. Half of you wanted to throw your phone on the ground and mentally unplug, but the reality of the situation was you were gonna be too drunk to take the streetcar efficiently. You needed your phone to Uber home. 

The tourists seemed to be thinning out the further you moved down Royal Street. All the excitement was a block over Bourbon usually, but it was nice from the crowds you witnessed earlier. Less out of towners destroying the historic district with alcohol containers and public indecency. The fewer people around made the Quarter a little bit nicer. Suddenly the tourists made sense. It was pretty when it was quiet. 

The galleries and boutique bars separated Royal from Bourbon’s roll of party spots. It was a completely different vibe. While you didn't hold much artistic ability, it was grounding to look at the masterpieces through the windows. There was something so comforting about the way it made you think about something else. It was a quick reprieve from the memory of your boyfriend's face as he was quite literally balls to the wall inside your long term roommate. 

Your wandering around the Quarter turned into a lazy stroll, and the sky turned dim. The weight of the day wore you out and all you wanted was a pick me up. You've heard that Erin Rose apparently had an amazing Irish coffee but that seemed like the opposite of where you wanted to be. At this point, you had a shitty margarita from a crap bar on Bourbon. Just enough to be tipsy but that wasn't enough, you needed to hear colors and see sounds. 

You were tired, but a familiar aroma brought you back to life with a single sniff. 

Now, Tulane taught you a lot in the several years you've been in attendance. The graduate programs at Tulane were coveted spots. Yet, not everything was an academic experience. Your ability to sniff out the perfect espresso martini was not because of education it was more of a passion based skill. It was a life line. The wave of coffee and vodka and serotonin was far more intoxicating than Sir bottom shelf tequila.

The glittering lights of the bar across the street caught your eye. Glowing yellow lights in a cursive script spelled out Lebeau’s. It seemed like a local place, with the smooth lighting and moody exterior. Carefully, one doc in front of the other you stepped in. 

The walls were this beautiful authentic exposed brick. The bar was sleek, with smooth jazz playing low in the background. Dark violet accents framed the dreary wood that the majority of the furniture consisted of. It was almost empty, except for one man in the corner of the bar, playing solitaire by himself on one of the cocktail tables by the door. No bartender though. 

Your brows furrowed, and you stepped in. The quiet was inviting. Whoever was in charge was probably just giving a run to the storage room or something. 

“I would consider another sponsorship, ‘Cher. ‘Pecially around these parts.” A crisp voice broke out in the quaint silence, absolutely ruining the vibes. 

When you walked into the bar, you came with the intention of drinking. While you knew you weren't alone, you didn't really care about the card guy. People go to bars to sit alone and decompress, not to bug random civilians. Only weirdos jump into random conversations with no warning. When the smoky Cajun drawl, it took you a solid 30 seconds to realize that you weren't hallucinating. 

Your head slowly turned to face the stranger, only this time there was no maneuvering of cards. He was staring at you. Red on black eyes flicking down your frame quickly. Only, it didn't feel like he was checking you out. It felt more analytical than it was pervy, which was comforting. Well, it was comforting in the way that you weren't being objectified but he was still fucking staring at you, which was an issue. “Pardon?” 

“Your shirt, Nets. Not popular in these parts. Ya�� from out of town, Chérie? New Jersey? I think the Nets are Jersey.” He was leaning on his elbows, forearms resting against the wooden tabletop.

 He had one of those scruffy patches of stubble on his face, that was still clearly facial hair but looked well maintained. Clearly he was aiming for a rugged appearance, and he wasn't far off. He wasn't unattractive actually. He was quite attractive. You couldn't dwell on it much, because the second you had the realization that he wasn't completely unfortunate looking, James's face flashed in your mind. 

“First of all buddy, not New Jersey. The Nets are from Brooklyn. Second of all, no, I'm not from New Jersey. Third of all, don't you dare tee-shirt shame me. It's not even my damn shirt. Also, the shirt is not that important, I just want a fucking drink.” You said in response, brows furrowing in frustration. There has to be a bartender at this place, who has a fully stocked empty bar and isn't behind the count- 

The stranger smirked as the realization was dawning on you that he was the Bartender. Well fuck me today I guess. He stood from his seat, grinning at your clear embarrassment, the cheeky bastard. He had one of those faces that always looked like he was sort of smirking. Great. Just what you needed! You just snapped at the bartender and he clearly found it funny. 

Suddenly a lobotomy seemed more desirable than a martini. When you have that change up maybe professional help should be seeked. 

“If you're wearing another man's shirt, I’d say that he has bad taste. Looking at you though, I can tell that's not true. Remy Labeau is a lot of things but he's not a liar.” Oh lovely. Flirty bartender. How horribly fucking cliche. “Now what can get you to drink, Beau?” 

At least he was smart enough to offer you a drink.

“Espresso martini. It's my ex's shirt, it just happens to be what I wore today.” You were still standing in the middle of the room. It was silly, but earlier you halted your movements to have a full conversation about your shirt for some reason. With a few steps, you slipped into a seat at the bar. 

Exhaustion hits your body like a ton of bricks the second you find yourself in a position of rest. You've been up since about 7, went to bed at 3, had two midterm- god you've been so preoccupied with the fact James Buchanan shit-for-brains Barnes sucked that you completely forgot that you just finished this semester midterms. To look on the bright side at least he had the decency to get caught cheating after your tests. Fucking asshole. You haven't stopped moving since you ran out of your bedroom hours earlier. 

“If it's an ex, then he has bad taste if he gave something up that looks as good as you.” Remy replied, his smirk faltering slightly. The statement sounded flirtatious, but something behind his eyes felt disconnected somehow. Okay, so what if a generic hot bartender had layers? Half of the job requirement is being nice to sad drunk people. 

Remy carefully slid over that treasured martini, just as you requested. “Personally, I think you'd be a lot kinder to me if you laid off the caffeine ‘Chérie. Ya’ seem jumpy. So, this ex. Is it a new ex? Or?” 

It seemed like curiosity. Harmless. The first instinct you had was to go for the throat and tell him it was none of his business. He was just trying to do his job. Make the drunk girl at the bar feel supported so you get a tip yadda yadda. You sighed, tilting your head back and bracing yourself for the information you were about to dump on this poor man. “Actually, very new. About-” You paused to pull your phone out of your pocket for the time, grimacing at the 17 missed calls and the 43 unread messages. “I would say around 8 hours ago. Give or take.” 

Remy’s brows rose, as his dark eyes analyzed your face. He clearly didn't believe you. “You broke up with him? Remy thinks that he wouldn't let one like you get away that easily, beau.” 

The flattery was kind in theory. It was this poor blue-collar worker's attempt to make you feel better. That is not what happened, of course. It was like the healing bruise was prodded. So instead of actually responding with words, like a normal fucking person, the tears were immediate. 

Remy was less prepared for the random tests than you were. The tall, broad man was startled, his eyes widening in shock. His body ducked down, searching for napkins or tissues or something. The random and very ugly crying had the annoying hot bartender in a state of panic. He seemed so smooth up until now, but clearly you caught him off guard. “Fuck m- I didn't mean to make you cry.” 

“It's totally fine.” You mumbled through the tears. Your mental stability hit the wall. It was going to happen eventually. Emotional and physical exhaustion was playing at your mental stability. You needed to get a hold of yourself. “It's not your fault. It's not my fault either. I came back from an exam to find him underneath my best friend. In my bed. I'm-”

You trailed off, taking a moment to control your breathing, before deciding to reinsert your foot in your mouth. Not like you'll ever see him again. “It's just very new. I felt like I had this perfect set up, now I'm back at square one. I had this perfect relationship and I loved my apartment. I have put years into a friendship with this person. I lost a rent controlled apartment in the garden district. An affordable apartment in that neighborhood is about as common as a golden fucking unicorn.” 

Remy listened to your words, standing back up to his full height. His dark eyes searched your face. His smirk faded into a relaxed expression. The only indicator that he was actually thinking was his eyebrows, which were furrowed together. He looked quite analytical actually. 

“That's a lot actually. I'm sorry.” His words were so genuine. The expected move from the hot bartender handbook would be Remy telling you that you were too good for James, or that he didn't know what he was missing. That never came. Just an apology and an acknowledgement that it was hard news. There was no fake pity in his voice. It was honestly incredibly refreshing.

“I know I need to find someplace to stay. The friend was my roommate, and she's on the lease. I'll have to go get my stuff but I'm hoping to go when they are in work or class. It's basically impossible to completely move out without one of them showing up. I guess I'll have to go in shifts or leave some stuff behind.” Your attention shifted back to your ignored martini, and you were thankful for the excuse to silence yourself by bringing the glass to your lips. 

“No bébé. You won't.” He said, his intense thought process breaking as easily as a single strand of hair. 

He caught you off guard as you dabbed your eye with a drink napkin. “Wh- I'm sorry. What do you mean I won't?”

“You won't be alone to get your things, beautiful. You won't need multiple trips. I'm taking you to get your things in the morning. You're gonna stay with me. My friend Scott just moved into an apartment with his girlfriend Jean. I have an extra room. You're going to be my new roommate.”

[mariacallous]

With the Olympic torch extinguished in Paris, all eyes are turning to Los Angeles for the 2028 Olympics.

The host city has promised that the next Summer Games will be “car-free.”

For people who know Los Angeles, this seems overly optimistic. The car remains king in LA, despite growing public transit options.

When LA hosted the Games in 1932, it had an extensive public transportation system, with buses and an extensive network of electric streetcars. Today, the trolleys are long gone; riders say city buses don’t come on schedule, and bus stops are dirty. What happened?

This question fascinates me because I am a business professor who studies why society abandons and then sometimes returns to certain technologies, such as vinyl records, landline phones, and metal coins. The demise of electric streetcars in Los Angeles and attempts to bring them back today vividly demonstrate the costs and challenges of such revivals.

Riding the Red and Yellow Cars

Transportation is a critical priority in any city, but especially so in Los Angeles, which has been a sprawling metropolis from the start.

In the early 1900s, railroad magnate Henry Huntington, who owned vast tracts of land around LA, started subdividing his holdings into small plots and building homes. In order to attract buyers, he also built a trolley system that whisked residents from outlying areas to jobs and shopping downtown.

By the 1930s, Los Angeles had a vibrant public transportation network, with over 1,000 miles of electric streetcar routes, operated by two companies: Pacific Electric Railway, with its “Red Cars,” and Los Angeles Railway, with its “Yellow Cars.”

The system wasn’t perfect by any means. Many people felt that streetcars were inconvenient and also unhealthy when they were jammed with riders. Moreover, streetcars were slow because they had to share the road with automobiles. As auto usage climbed and roads became congested, travel times increased.

Nonetheless, many Angelenos rode the streetcars—especially during World War II, when gasoline was rationed and automobile plants shifted to producing military vehicles.

Demise of Public Transit

The end of the war marked the end of the line for streetcars. The war effort had transformed oil, tire, and car companies into behemoths, and these industries needed new buyers for goods from the massive factories they had built for military production. Civilians and returning soldiers were tired of rationing and war privations, and they wanted to spend money on goods such as cars.

After years of heavy usage during the war, Los Angeles’ streetcar system needed an expensive capital upgrade. But in the mid-1940s, most of the system was sold to a company called National City Lines, which was partly owned by the carmaker General Motors, the oil companies Standard Oil of California and Phillips Petroleum, and the Firestone tire company.

These powerful forces had no incentive to maintain or improve the old electric streetcar system. National City ripped up tracks and replaced the streetcars with buses that were built by General Motors, used Firestone tires, and ran on gasoline.

There is a long-running academic debate over whether self-serving corporate interests purposely killed LA’s streetcar system. Some researchers argue that the system would have died on its own, like many other streetcar networks around the world.

The controversy even spilled over into pop culture in the 1988 movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit, which came down firmly on the conspiracy side.

What’s undisputed is that, starting in the mid-1940s, powerful social forces transformed Los Angeles so that commuters had only two choices: drive or take a public bus. As a result, LA became so choked with traffic that it often took hours to cross the city.

In 1990, the Los Angeles Times reported that people were putting refrigerators, desks, and televisions in their cars to cope with getting stuck in horrendous traffic. A swath of movies, from Falling Down to Clueless to La La Land, have featured the next-level challenge of driving in LA.

Traffic was also a concern when LA hosted the 1984 Summer Games, but the Games went off smoothly. Organizers convinced over 1 million people to ride buses, and they got many trucks to drive during off-peak hours. The 2028 games, however, will have roughly 50 percent more athletes competing, which means thousands more coaches, family, friends, and spectators. So simply dusting off plans from 40 years ago won’t work.

Olympic Transportation Plans

Today, Los Angeles is slowly rebuilding a more robust public transportation system. In addition to buses, it now has four light-rail lines—the new name for electric streetcars—and two subways. Many follow the same routes that electric trolleys once traveled. Rebuilding this network is costing the public billions, since the old system was completely dismantled.

Three key improvements are planned for the Olympics. First, LA’s airport terminals will be connected to the rail system. Second, the Los Angeles organizing committee is planning heavily on using buses to move people. It will do this by reassigning some lanes away from cars and making them available for 3,000 more buses, which will be borrowed from other locales.

Finally, there are plans to permanently increase bicycle lanes around the city. However, one major initiative, a bike path along the Los Angeles River, is still under an environmental review that may not be completed by 2028.

Car-Free for 17 Days

I expect that organizers will pull off a car-free Olympics, simply by making driving and parking conditions so awful during the Games that people are forced to take public transportation to sports venues around the city. After the Games end, however, most of LA is likely to quickly revert to its car-centric ways.

As Casey Wasserman, chair of the LA 2028 organizing committee, recently put it: “The unique thing about Olympic Games is for 17 days you can fix a lot of problems when you can set the rules—for traffic, for fans, for commerce—than you do on a normal day in Los Angeles.”

[elderberries-and-honey]

Winifred had been right to suspect that once the dog days of summer arrived, their quaint neighborhood would begin to fill out. The once peaceful, empty streets were now humming with life; as if the glittering morning dew frosting over each day had beckoned them all back home.

You could not go more than a few hours without hearing a horse’s steady gallop hauling a carriage, or sometimes, even the sound of a rare streetcar.

Lawrence was particularly pleased by this fact, anxious to get to know the families around the neighborhood, but Winifred herself was not quite as keen. She had liked the quiet of their solitude, and it felt almost like an invasion of privacy not to have it anymore.

However, much like their new seemingly sophisticated life, it was just something she would have to adjust to. These days, everything felt like something she just needed adjusting to.

And, now that autumn was just around the corner, their lives had somehow become busier than ever before; their days spent together at the lake felt years behind them rather than only a few weeks.

In the afternoon, Beth and Winifred attended painting lessons together; a gift from Lawrence to them both. Their instructor was a soft-spoken, well traveled Frenchman, teaching impressionism and neoclassicism.

Personally, Winifred thought he was a little overqualified to be teaching a skill of his caliber to a housewife and a widow, neither of whom had much experience in the arts, but she was trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth. After all, it had been a thoughtful gesture and she wanted to appreciate it nonetheless.

Despite not having the experience though, out of the two of them, Beth was notably more skilled; their instructor often awed by her work. More than once, she could hear his tone vibrating with excitement, almost bursting at the seam as he complimented her use of different brush strokes, much to Winifred’s envy.

Her mother, Alice, was always a natural at painting; as a girl, she loved to sit at her mother's feet whenever she stepped in front of a canvas, and watch as she transformed even the most mundane of landscapes into elaborate works of art. She regularly wished she would have inherited her aptitude for it, but it appeared that she was much better with a pen than a paint brush.

Even the little ones had busy schedules now that summer was on its deathbed. Lawrence had hired two nursery maids, one for each of the boys; it was the only service he had not taken care of before they arrived at their new home. He wanted them to be the perfect fit, and it seemed he had accomplished the seemingly impossible.

Ozzy now spent most of his days with Ms. Hamilton; a woman only a few years Winifred's senior but with the sweetness and patience of one's old Nana. Ozzy warmed up to her quicker than anyone could have expected and their daily lessons seemed to be paying off. She taught him shapes and letters (of which he was quite fond of), along with all the manners that a well-adjusted young man should know (he was not quite so fond of this), and even how to begin writing his own name.

Every so often, when Winifred went to check-in on their little classroom, she would once again be overcome by a similar feeling of envy. She didn't want her children to struggle, not at all; each time she felt it, she would call herself a silly woman for being jealous of a toddler and be on her way, scolding herself for the thoughts that echoed in her head.

But, it was just that, well, they'd all adjusted so quickly! All of them were getting on with things just fine, while she could hardly make sense of it all!

Did no one else think this strange? Didn't they miss their chickens, or long to watch the sunset over the hillside, or even the flower paths on their way into town? And what about their friends, or their beloved shopkeepers who memorized all their names?

It was as if they'd all somehow forgotten the first place she could ever truly call home; and if she couldn't find the will to adjust, would they all wish they could simply forget her too?

next / previous / first

[therealslimshakespeare]

🪺 Crawfever Masterlist

Summary: I adore the notion that Elvis Freakin’ Presley himself might have shown up at your doorstep to fix your electrical problems in the early 50’s. The concept that all that untapped charisma and talent and beauty could be found just going about his business, helping housewives with their glitches…well, this came out of the imagining of what one such call might look like. And if it devolved into poorly written Southern Gothic literature, blame Eudora Welty. 🥰. Also, A Streetcar Named Desire may have influenced my artistic choice of copious descriptions of a sticky southern summer and the feelings they can provoke. If you’ve found yourself wanting baby Elvis with a milf, I’ve got you covered. This hasn’t been proofread by any eyes except my own exhausted ones. Cheers.

-An Electrician Named Elvis

-A Couple’ve Hot Summers

-Intermediate 3

-Intermediate 4

[marinas-drafts]

Crawfever 1

Plot: You weren’t the first war widow to indulge in this, and young Elvis wasn’t the first young man who justified it…

SUMMARY: I adore the notion that Elvis Freakin’ Presley himself might have shown up at your doorstep to fix your electrical problems in the early 50’s. The concept that all that untapped charisma and talent and beauty could be found just going about his business, helping housewives with their glitches…well, this came out of the imagining of what one such call might look like. And if it devolved into poorly written Southern Gothic literature, blame Eudora Welty. 🥰. Also, A Streetcar Named Desire may have influenced my artistic choice of copious descriptions of sticky southern summers and the *feelings* they can provoke. This hasn’t been proofread by any eyes except my own exhausted ones.

Note: there were three other parts to this but I lost them with my old blog, alas. You can find them on tumblr still on my main blog. 💋

An Electrician Named Elvis

Summer in Memphis is a sticky, windless, oppressive thing, only relieved by the occasional swim, creaking fans and a chilled beverage held to the throat. The ice box is revered as a savior during these months and those nights the electricity shorts out due to the thunderstorms rolling across the Mississippi are spent in anxious fretting that it would turn on again by morning. But by ten o’clock this morning there’s no such luck, even though the lines have been fixed you’ve been told it’s a problem closer in.

Probably in the house.

Exactly the sort of problem your Billy would have solved himself with no extra cost but the odd washer or wire.

But Billy’s not here so instead you’ve got Crown Electric sending out whoever they deem expendable enough to waste on fixing a housewife’s ice box.

If it’s Marvin they send, you just might flip -you appreciate the man but haven’t any patience for that or him. Not today, not on top of milk going rancid and your baby girl having a pathetic breakfast before school. You can’t mend Marvin’s pants any faster for all that he mows your lawn. The lawn you pay him to mow. The lawn he owns as your landlord anyhow -oh and there’s the sound of the Crown truck coming to a stop on the drive.

You recognize that staring at the ice box won’t do much good so you go to the screen door in time to see a whole lotta leg swing out from the drivers seat.

You’re not sure you’ve ever appreciated a pair of legs so much as you do this blazing morning, and as they stretch out you have an epiphany of sympathy for the wolf whistles you yourself have received on windy days.

This pair goes on for miles, and they’re owned by an eager, doll-faced boy.

Heavens, is this his first job? At least it isn’t Marvin and you won’t be pestered about rent or mending, but wether or not a man who favors pink socks under his drab olive work-suit can fix a problem that’s befuddled many a handyman before him -well, that remains to be seen.

He’s halfway up the drive when he catches sight of you behind the screen door, his face animates and he jogs up the rest of the way. Taking the front steps two at a time.

You push the door open.

In the shade of your doorstep his complexion looks softer than any of your sister’s and you’re greeted by the same expression you see each morning when you wake your young daughter up -a desire to please. The effect is a little unsettling on a grown man, so obviously well proportioned, towering over you and decked out in a rough handyman’s attire.

“They said you’ve got an outage ma’am?”

“Yes, couldn’t fix it with the lines apparently.”

“Probably just the lightening shorted somethin’ out.” He assures you, voice going ever so gentle, like he’s comforting someone deeply bereaved.

Like he’s gonna fix all your troubles by turning the ice box and fans back on.

That won’t cure all your troubles, but it would be a start, a way for you to handle the rest.

“May I come in?” He adds softly when you say nothing.

You’re still standing in the doorway, unconsciously guarding it as you’ve been doing since you got that wretched telegram in ‘44. Nine years ago. Nine years and no one but relatives and Marvin when collecting the rent have crossed the threshold since.

Certainly no long limbed boy with hair as black as Billy’s and the intention of helping you around the house. Fixing the house, rather. No, damn it, just the electricity like it’s his job to do.

Just as Billy would have done if Billy were here.

This ain’t Billy, Billy had an earnest, sweet face and none of this boy’s ripe prettiness. Billy never talked softly either.

“Yeah, yeah, of course, right this way -what’s you’re name?”

“Elvis…Presley, ma’am.”

“Welcome to the oven, Elvis.”

The house has become a swampy inferno and though the windows are open the curtains hang limp, there isn’t a breeze between all these houses packed close together. It’s stifling under the low ceiling and whatever fresh look he had maintained flying down the road in his aired-out truck is melting now.

“Downright nasty in here.” He comments, and then he grins at you as the sweat begins to collect atop his cupid’s bow. “No wonder you’re out of sorts.”

“Yeah that’s gotta be it.” You manage to return the grin, ignoring the insinuation, “And spoilt milk always makes me testy.”

“You kept your ice box closed?”

“Sure have.”

“Then it might be alright. Only been off a few hours, right?”

“Since midnight.”

“Well, then, should be fine.” He’s got that comforting voice going on again and you reckon that either there’s an old soul in that daisy fresh face or else he’s spent most of his young life reassuring somebody. Reassurance flows from him naturally, and for once, you don’t feel like shrugging the comfort off.

And there’s a strange clench in your heart at how long it’s been sense you let someone metaphorically pat your back and tell you everything will turn out right. You’ve got lots of relations and a few friends who busy themselves and you with worrying about how you’re gonna manage to raise your daughter, earn a living and climb far enough out of the fog of widowhood to be considered socially acceptable again. It’s nice that some boy who’s never had his guts ripped open overseas wants to restore your ice box to you and make everything alright again. It’s precious that he thinks that’ll do it.

You’ve been pondering too long and now you’ve got a frog lodged in your throat and it ought to be awkward but he doesn’t look away, he just shyly peaks down at you under copious lashes and smiles encouragingly. “The electrical panel is in one of the bedroom closets, I’m guessin’?”

“In the Master.”

“Alright then.”

You usher him back to the stuffy little room that's glowing orange from the drapes trying to block out the noonday sun.

You’d pulled some clothes out of the closest beforehand to make it easier for him to reach the panel. When you’d done that you were imagining Marvin or man of his stubby frame working on it, but Elvis is unfazed, he just gracefully folds his long limbs into a squat in the tiny cubby and cranes his neck until he level with the panel. He’s got his tool kit balanced on one thigh and he gives you a thumbs up to suggest your presence is no longer needed. He is starting to look as miserably sticky as you feel, his black hair turning somehow darker with sweat.

His lips pucker up as he starts unscrewing a bolt. It’s rather obscene.

“Would you like some lemonade?” You’re offering as you need some yourself.

He looks startled you’re still standing there but after a minute’s hesitation he asks: “is it pipin’ hot?”

You laugh and he immediately looks pleased with himself. Damn, he’s so young. “I’m gonna crack open the ice box” you explain.

His humored look flees and earnest blue eyes go round in protest. “Ma’am I haven’t fixed this yet! I just got in here!”

“I know, silly,” you swat the air at him, “take it as a sign of faith you’ll manage it.”

He grins back, and a man squatting in a sweltering closet oughtn't to look that alluring. You assure yourself it’s just the domesticity of the whole thing. Billy changing a bulb or scrubbing a dish or hanging Christmas lights that one Christmas you had him to yourself -that’s the stuff that made you throw yourself at Billy in the mid afternoon of a balmy work day.

Raven haired young Elvis might work for the electrical company and be earning a commission with each moment of his work day you waste but if you squint a bit, he could be a beautiful boy who wanted to wife you up and give you babies and rub your feet when you’d been on them all day.

Lately you’ve gone out of the habit of assuming someone who looks as fresh as he does would be eyeing up a sweat soaked war widow, but young Mr. Presley had either never been shamed for his lack of subtly or never bothered to hide it because while his looks were tender, they weren’t respectful in the proper sense. You only wished you could see his revering expression as you sauntered away from him back into the kitchen.

The ice box was tolerably cool for having been kept shut. The milk was safe for now but would spoil sooner for the dip in temperature. That waste didn't rankle you as much as it had an hour ago. The thought “that’s alright” actually made it past your lips for the first time in months and you couldn’t help but marvel that you might have lost a bit of your cantankerous streak on the front steps.

With a sudden swoosh and buzz the small pedastol fan on the counter top buzzes back to life and the light in the ice box clicks on.

You whooped “you’ve done it!”

Heavy footfalls came out of the back bedroom and Elvis came into view with a bewildered look on his face: “You haven’t got a A.C. unit ma’am?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Oh you should!” He warmed up to the argument, “They make the air crisper than anything, sucks the river mist right out the air.”

“Not gonna be able to manage that on a war widow’s pension.” You retort nonchalantly, handing him a glass of chilled lemonade which he takes slowly and carefully, eyeing you over the rim.

“So that’s what happened.” He said softly.

“What do you mean?”

“You seem so sad. That’s what started it?”

If he stayed this empathetic for the rest of his life he’d end up burned out and hollow before he hit fifty. He had no business looking out to solve every hurting person’s problems, not when he was so obviously lost himself.

“Three days into the Normandy campaign, at least that’s what they told me.” You've explained your husbands absence many times in the same way, but you aren’t sure you ever had a more sympathetic audience than this boy who is pressing the beaded lemonade glass to his cheek and looking at you like he knows exactly what it’s like to have your sweetheart get burned up by a nazi flamethrower. He doesn’t say a word of comfort on the matter, he doesn’t need to, his eyes show it all and his lips part and he murmurs:

“But he gave you a child?”

“He sure did, bless him. Her name’s June,” your lips quirk up just at the thought of her “my baby girl. She’ll be turning nine, day after tomorrow.”

The sorrow has gone off his face and he looks like he’s scheming now, and somehow that’s the most alarming expression to yet grace his features. He leans in across the kitchen counter, all familiar like, and that’s worse than anything: “Tell me, Mrs. Crawford, yeah, see I caught your name in the directory -but, tell me, does your June like to swim?”

“Loves it almost as much as watermelon.” You know you must look wary, but the last time a man leaned over a bar and eyed you up in this way you ended up married to him. Actually, scratch that. Billy was a darling and a delightful flirt but he didn’t have one ounce of the raw, unconscious danger this boy holds in his pinky finger alone.

“I’ve got a heap of cousins,” he begins quite randomly, “ranging all ages, and we’ve got a watering hole we found just south of town where the trees keep it all cool and the farmer doesn’t mind us so long as we don’t upset the cows. And I’ve got a truck, you see, and I was thinkin’ when you needed to cool off you could come join us. My mama would love to make a picnic out of little June’s birthday, I just know she would. What do you say to that?”

“Mr. Presley, I don’t know you nor your cousins. And I’m sure your mama is real nice but-“

“Right, because I reckon otherwise you get out a lot these days.” You hardly expected that amount of sass coming from his earnest face and it takes you aback.

You try a different route. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to see you smiling and wet from something besides sweat.” It’s a sweet sentiment, if it didn’t come from a man eyeing you up like he has been these past five minutes.

“I don’t know about her birthday,” you give in a little, “my parents always like to be around for it and she likes them to be.”

“Of course, of course” he nods. “And she doesn’t know me.”

“No she doesn’t.” It kills you to turn this down but you aren’t one to go do things your child isn’t interested in in her name.

“Tell her about the swimmin’ hole, then” he says all easy and confident as he straightens himself up from the counter and chugs the lemonade down, “and I’ll be back day after tomorrow with an extra valve so this don’t happen again. No need for it going off every time the rice fields get some rain.”

You’re clutching your glass to your chest and not even the icy chill against your sticky breast can make your heart stop thumping. “You’ve gotta come back?”

“I suppose I could ask Marvin to come instead.” He shrugs a tad too nonchalant, and looks away from you as he maneuvers around you to place his glass in the sink like the good, house tamed boy that he is. Except you’re very afraid you’ve miscalculated and welcomed a wolf in when you thought you were entertaining a lamb.

“How do you know about Marvin?” You demand.

“I work with him?” He replies hesitantly, brows and lips drawn up and eyes glittering with concern at your tone.

“No, no” you smack him lightly on the bicep and realize your mistake when he breaks out into a dimpled smile, “I meant why did you smirk when you said that he could come instead of you?”

“You’d rather your landlord come by and see your still in the back?” He’s cocky now, a hip jutted out against the cabinets.

“How the hell did you notice that?” You cried out, half laughing, half outraged, “You weren’t back in that bedroom longer than ten minutes.”

“I’s just curious what type of moonshine you were makin’.” He mutters, smirk barely wavering. “I’d never judge nobody for how they make ends meet.”

“Alright, you can come back.”

“Marvin talks about you.” He tosses this piece of information out there real cooly. You nearly get whiplash from how fast he changes direction, “Told me you’re a marvelous woman who takes care of the whole block but won’t let no one take care of her.”

You aren’t sure you’re comforted by the fact his tender smile is still in place. But you’re glad that he doesn’t seem to taste an awkward moment when it smacks him in the face. You find you like talking with him about these long neglected subjects.

“Marvin’s alright.” You concede. “He helps me out plenty. And now there’s you. And I thank you for fixing my fans.”

To prove your point turn from him and rest your elbows on the countertop, leaning to push your face up to the blast of the little pedestal fan, letting your hair fly wildly around you.

Somewhere behind you can hear him chuckle. It sounds alarmingly close. “It’s made my day.” You say, voice distorted by the force of the whirring blades.

That’s when you feel him drape himself over you, his chest a centimeter away from your sticky back and an elegant hand on each side of yours against the counter. His voice warbles just as funny thanks to the fan when he says: “Mrs. Crawford, I’m gonna get you a Chrysler air cooling system, just you wait and see.”

Presumably he’s draped himself over the length of you to get in the direct line of the fan’s breeze, but you doubt there’s any other man at Crown Electric who’d dare act on that impulse as he has.

“Oh are ya now?” You don’t even have to try to sound incredulous. You are incredulous he’d dare do this, that he’d read you so well to know you’re starving for a little closeness in this soggy kitchen. “Well, that’s real sweet of you, Elvis. How on earth are you gonna manage that?”

Why he, a stranger, would buy you such a thing is left unasked. Again, it feels domestic and you want to hold onto that fuzzy feeling for a moment longer. Also, you’re desperately trying to keep still, one tiny shift or move and you’ll brush up against some part of him, and at this point you’re not sure there’s an inch of this man that’s benign. Playing along seems safer than trying to disentangle.

His head dips down and the strands of his hair tickle the tips of your ear as his voice drops low:

“I’m gonna make a lotta money, mama.”

“Oh? Is there any money left in Memphis?”

He giggles then, and he never sounded more boyish than when he did that, his voice bouncing off the tinny fan. “Dunno how I’ll manage but it will involve singin” he takes one hand from the countertop and pats your hip familiarly, and right then any bit of deniability on your part goes out the window because you don’t correct him for it.

“‘Cause we’re so short in singers in Memphis?” You tease instead, wishing you sounded less interested. Less gasping.

“Yeaaaaaah baaaaaaaaby” he hollers above you into the fan, laughing again as it spooks you and you jerk back, right into the lanky breadth of him.

There’s a brief wrestling match after that involving you trying to get away from his lithe limbs as fast as you can and him trying to keep you from toppling over by wrapping his lean arms around your shoulders.

That stills you.

No one’s rested their chin atop your head in nearly a decade, and you could sob in frustration that it’s that little motion of his that makes you hungry and angry all at once.

You coulda had this. You had it for one good year. You could have it again if the whole block wouldn’t gape at the fact you were robbing the damn cradle.

Young Mr. Presley seems to have a taste for housewives pushing towards thirty and you aren't too proud to deny you’ve suddenly grown an attraction for sweet boys who just wanna make life sweeter. You two could write a sweet fiction, however brief.

“I wanna see you happy,” he mutters soft in your ear, “tell me you’ll let me come around again.”

“I’ll tell you what, Elvis,” you place your hands atop his forearms, leaning back, “you come around, meet my June, fix that washer business and I’ll feed ya a good meal while you tell her ‘bout that watering hole.”

“Really?” He’s beaming and you crane your neck back further so you can see it clearly. It’s a sight to be admired. “Day after tomorrow, that’ll work?”

“Yeah it’ll do.” His unabashed joy gives you the upper hand for a moment and you do the safe thing, pulling away and giving him a once over. “Tell me, does that nice mama of yours know you go round putting moves on widows?”

He has the audacity to blush at that, looking down at the floor, abashed for the first time since this shameless encounter. “She worries they’ll be the ones putting the moves on me.” And he rolls his eyes as if that sensible woman were delusional.

“Can’t imagine why.” You say dryly. “Now, you scoot, I’ve got mending to do.”

He wakes up at that, grabbing his tool kit and ducking his head not to hit the low ceiling as he makes his way to the front door. You trail after him enjoying the view of something so virile and alive in your house. Since when have men’s waists been so pretty?

“So, see you day after tomorrow?” He looks more vulnerable outside, not so sultry in the glow of blazing sunlight, and the anticipation of somebody wanting to see you puts a pep in your tone, brightens your face -you can feel it, and see it mirrored in his.

“Yeah,” you lean against the frame, “and after that…”

“Yeah?”

You let him fidget, “after that you’ll show me how you plan on getting me that A.C. Unit.”

He snaps his fingers and points at you, “I’ll bring my guitar then.”

“Oh yes, you’d better.”

He’s halfway back to his truck when he spins around and takes a few steps back towards you, “Say, d’you play anything?”

It’s been awhile and you’re rusty but you reckon you’re about to begin indulging in many long abandoned pastimes so you tell him: “Harmonica.”

“Ah,” he sways back on his feet, going back to his truck only to turn, one foot on the runner boards, looking at you admiringly. “You’ve got the lips for it.”

Hope y’all enjoyed. This is a repost from my (currently censored) main blog @precious-little-scoundrel and in turn it’s a repost from the original written over a year ago on my deleted OG Elvis blog @aconflagrationofmyown I want to start collecting my fics here in case anything happens with my main. Xoxo

[the1920sinpictures]

1914 Disembarking from the streetcar at Broadway and 242d Street. See all the straw boaters on the men? That’s how you know it’s summer!

[familyabolisher]

this tennessee williams essay is getting so unwieldy lmao

[rabbitcruiser]

The first municipally owned streetcars took to the streets in San Francisco on December 28, 1912.  

[sigalrm]

Trams everywhere by Pascal Volk Via Flickr: Photobombing by a tram

[indecentreverie]

Quarter Life Birthday Wishes

At twenty five, I know August is for impulse  as heat is half of desire.

My blood is warm during the day and always boiling at night,  calling for someone’s cool breath on my neck. A man loved me this year, but the only time I felt wanted  was when another called me just lovely and  looked at me like a vulture  primed to tear open my rib cage. I am reading A Streetcar... again. The first time I was seventeen, roused by rage and unsure why. Blanche speaks to a mirror. I joke out loud,  “She’s just like me.” The room is vacant besides these sweaty pages in my hands and the pale blue fire inside me. Like Mitch, I want “what I’ve been missing all summer.” Just some peaches and a bare chest to bite into. 

--- @indecentreverie

[historicity-was-already-taken]

Yizkor, 1943 by Rachel Auerbach

I saw a flood once in the mountains. Wooden huts, torn from their foundations, were carried above the raging waters. One could still see lighted lamps in them; and men, women and children were tied to the ceiling beams. Other huts were empty inside, but one could see a tangle of arms waving from the roof, like branches blowing in the wind waving desperately toward heaven, toward the river banks for help. At a distance, one could see mouths gaping, but one could not hear the cries because the roar of the waters drowned out everything. And that’s how the Jewish masses flowed to their destruction at the time of the deportations. Sinking as helplessly into the deluge of destruction.

And if, for even one of the days of my life, I should forget how I saw you then, my people, desperate and confused, de­livered over to extinction, may all knowledge of me be forgot­ten and my name be cursed like that of those traitors who are unworthy to share your pain.

Every instinct in the mass is revealed, entangled, exposed. All feelings churning, feverish to the core. Lashed by hundreds of whips of unreasoning activity. Hundreds of deceptive or ridiculous schemes of rescue. And at the other pole, a yielding to the inevitable, a gravitation toward mass death that is no less substantial than the gravitation toward life. Sometimes the two antipodes followed each other in the same being.

Who can render the stages of the dying of a people? Only the shudder of pity for one’s self and for others. And again il­lusion: waiting for the chance miracle. The insane smile of hope in the eyes of the incurable patient. Ghastly reflections of color on the yellowed face of one who is condemned to death.

Condemned to death. Who could—who wished to understand such a thing? And who could have expected such a decree against the mass? Against such low branches, such simple Jews. The lowly plants of the world. The sorts of people who would have lived out their lives without ever picking a quarrel with the righteous—or even the unrighteous—of this world.

How could such people have been prepared to die in a gas chamber? The sorts of people who were terrified of a dentist’s chair, who turned pale at the pulling of a tooth.

And what of them ... the little children?

The little ones, and those smaller still who not long ago were to be seen in the arms of their mothers, smiling at a bird or at a sunbeam. Prattling at strangers in the streetcar. Who still played “patty-cake” or cried “giddyup” waving their tiny hands in the air. Or called, “Papa.” O, unrecognizable world in which these children and their mothers are gone. “Giddyup.”

Even the sweetest ones: the two- and three-year-olds who seemed like newly hatched chicks tottering about on their weak legs. And even the slightly larger ones who could already talk. Who endlessly asked about the meanings of words. For whom whatever they learned was always brand new. Five-year-olds. And six-year-olds. And those who were older still—their eyes wide with curiosity about the whole world. And those older still whose eyes were already veiled by the mists of their ap­proaching ripeness. Boys who, in their games, were readying themselves for achievements yet to come.

Girls who still nursed their dolls off in corners. Who wore ribbons in their hair; girls, like sparrows, leaping about in courtyards and on garden paths. And those who looked like buds more than half opened. The kind to whose cheeks the very first wind of summer seems to have given its first glowing caress. Girls of eleven, twelve, thirteen with the faces of angels. Playful as kittens. Smiling May blossoms. And those who have nearly bloomed: the fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds. The Sarahs, the Rebeccahs, the Leahs of the Bible, their names recast into Polish. Their eyes blue and gray and green under brows such as one sees on the frescoes unearthed in Babylon and Egypt. Slender young frauleins from the wells of Hebron. Jungfraus from Evangelia. Foreign concubines of Jewish patriarchs; desert maidens with flaring nostrils, their hair in ringlets, dark com­plected but turned pale by passion. Spanish daughters, friends of Hebrew poets of the Middle Ages. Dreamy flowers bent over mirroring pools. And opposite them? Delicate blondes in whom Hebrew passion is interwoven with Slavic cheerfulness. And the even-brighter flaxen-haired peasants, broad-hipped women, as simple as black bread, or as a shirt on the body of the folk.

It was an uncanny abundance of beauty of that generation growing up under the gray flag of ghetto poverty and mass hunger. Why was it that we were not struck by this as a portent of evil? Why was it that we did not understand that this blos­soming implied its own end?

It was these, and such as these, who went into the abyss— our beautiful daughters. These were the ones who were plucked and torn to bits.

And where are the Jewish young men? Earnest and serious; passionate as high-bred horses, chomping at the bit, eager to race. The young workers, the halutsim, Jewish students avid for study, for sports, for politics. World improvers and flag bearers of every revolution. Youths whose passion made them ready to fill the prison cells of all the world. And many were tortured in camps even before the mass murder began. And where are the other youths, simpler than they—the earthen roots of a scat­tered people, the very essence of sobriety countering the decay of idealism at the trunk. Young men with ebullient spirits, their heads lowered like those of bulls against the decree spoken against our people.

And pious Jews in black gabardines, looking like priests in their medieval garb. Jews who were rabbis, teachers who wanted to transform our earthly life into a long study of Torah and prayer to God. They were the first to feel the scorn of the butcher. Their constant talk of martyrdom turned out not to be mere empty words.

And still other Jews. Broad shouldered, deep voiced, with powerful hands and hearts. Artisans, workers. Wagon drivers, porters. Jews who, with a blow of their fists, could floor any hooligan who dared enter into their neighborhoods.

Where were you when your wives and children, when your old fathers and mothers were taken away? What happened to make you run off like cattle stampeded by fire? Was there no one to give you some purpose in the confusion? You were swept away in the flood, together with those who were weak.

And you sly and cunning merchants, philanthropists in your short fur coats and caps. How was it that you didn’t catch on to the murderous swindle? Fathers and mothers of families; you, in Warsaw. Stout women merchants with proud faces ra­diating intelligence above your three chins, standing in your shops behind counters heaped with mountains of goods.

And you other mothers. Overworked peddler women and market stall keepers. Disheveled and as anxious about your children as irritable setting hens when they flap their wings. And other fathers, already unhorsed, as it were. Selling sweets from their wobbling tables in the days of the ghetto.

What madness is it that drives one to list the various kinds of Jews who were destroyed?

Grandfathers and grandmothers with an abundance of grandchildren. With hands like withered leaves, their heads white. Who already trembled at the latter end of their days. They were not destined simply to decline wearily into their graves like rest-­seeking souls, like the sun sinking wearily into the ocean’s waves. No. It was decreed that before they died they would get to see the destruction of all that they had begotten, of all that they had built.

The decree against the children and the aged was more complete and more terrible than any.

Those who counted and those who counted for less. Those with aptitudes developed carefully over countless generations. Incom­parable talents, richly endowed with wisdom and professional skill: doctors, professors, musicians, painters, architects. And Jewish craftsmen, tailors—famous and sought after; Jewish watchmakers in whom gentiles had confidence. Jewish cabinet­makers, printers, bakers. The great proletariat of Warsaw. Or shall I console myself with the fact that, for the most part, you man­aged to die of hunger and need in the ghetto before the expulsion?

Ah, the ways of Warsaw—the black soil of Jewish Warsaw.

My heart weeps even for the pettiest thief on Krochmalna Street, even for the worst of the knife wielders of narrow Mila, because even they were killed for being Jewish. Anointed and purified in the brotherhood of death.

Ah, where are you, petty thieves of Warsaw, you illegal street vendors and sellers of rotten apples? And you, the more harmful folk—members of great gangs who held their own courts, who supported their own synagogues in the Days of Awe, who conducted festive funerals, and who gave alms like the most prosperous burghers.

Ah, the mad folk of the Jewish street! Disordered sooth­sayers in a time of war.

Ah, bagel sellers on winter evenings.

Ah, poverty-stricken children of the ghetto. Ghetto peddlers, ghetto smugglers supporting their families, loyal and courageous to the end. Ah, the poor barefoot boys moving through the autumn mire with their boxes of cigarettes: “Ciga­rettes! Cigarettes! Matches! Matches!” The voice of the tiny cigarette seller crying his wares on the corner of Leszno and Karmelicka Streets still rings in my ears.

Where are you, my boy? What have they done to you? Reels from the unfinished and still-unplayed preexpulsion film The Singing Ghetto wind and rewind in my memory. Even the dead sang in that film. They drummed with their swollen feet as they begged: “Money, ah money, Money is the best thing there is.”

There was no power on earth, no calamity that could inter­fere with their quarrelsome presence in that Jewish street. Until there came that Day of Curses—a day that was entirely night.

Hitler finally achieved his greatest ambition of the war. And finally, his dreadful enemy was defeated and fell: that little boy on the comer of Leszno and Karmelicka Streets, of Smocza and Nowolipie, of Dzika Street. The weapons of the women peddlers reached to every market square.

What luxury! They stopped tearing at their own throats from morning until night. They stopped snatching the morsels of clay-colored, clay-adulterated bread from each other.

The first to be rounded up were the beggars. All the unemployed and the homeless were gathered up off the streets. They were loaded into wagons on the first morning of the Deportation and driven through the town. They cried bitterly and stretched their hands out or wrung them in despair or covered their faces. The youngest of them cried, “Mother, mother.” And in­deed, there were women to be seen running along both sides of the wagons, their head shawls slipping from their heads as they stretched their hands out toward their children, those young smugglers who had been rounded up along the walls. In other of the wagons, the captives looked like people condemned to death who, in the old copperplate engravings, are shown being driven to the scaffold in tumbrils.

The outcries died down in the town, and there was silence. Later on, there were no cries heard. Except when women were caught and loaded onto the wagons and one could hear an oc­casional indrawn hiss, such as fowl make as they are carried to the slaughter.

Men, for the most part, were silent. Even the children were so petrified that they seldom cried.

The beggars were rounded up, and there was no further singing in the ghetto. I heard singing only once more after the deporta­tions began. A monotonous melody from the steppes sung by a thirteen-year-old beggar girl. Over a period of two weeks she used to creep out of her hiding place in the evening, when the day’s roundups were over. Each day, looking thinner and paler and with an increasingly brighter aureole of grief about her head, she took her place at her usual spot behind a house on Leszno Street and began the warbling by whose means she earned her bit of bread....

Enough, enough ... I have to stop writing.

No. No. I can’t stop. I remember another girl of fourteen. My own brother’s orphan daughter in Lemberg whom I carried about in my arms as if she were my own child. Lussye! And another Lussye, older than she, one of my cousins who was studying in Lemberg and who was like a sister to me. And Lonye, my brother’s widow, the mother of the first Lussye, and Mundek, an older child of hers whom I thought of as my own son from the time that he was orphaned. And another girl in the family, a pianist of thirteen, my talented little cousin Yossima.

And all of my mother’s relatives in their distant village in Podolia: Auntie Beyle, Auntie Tsirl, Uncle Yassye, Auntie Dortsye, my childhood’s ideal of beauty.

I have so many names to recall, how can I leave any of them out, since nearly all of them went off to Belzec and Tre­blinka or were killed on the spot in Lanowce and Ozieran in Czortkow and in Mielnica. In Krzywicze and elsewhere.

Absurd! I will utter no more names. They are all mine, all related. All who were killed. Who are no more. Those whom I knew and loved press on my memory, which I compare now to a cemetery. The only cemetery in which there are still indica­tions that they once lived in this world.

I feel—and I know—that they want it that way. Each day I recall another one of those who are gone.

And when I come to the end of the list, segment by seg­ment added to the segments of my present life in the town, start over again from the beginning, and always in pain. Each of them hurts me individually, the way one feels pain when parts of the body have been surgically removed. When the nerves surviving in the nervous system signal the presence of every finger on amputated hands or feet.

Not long ago, I saw a woman in the streetcar, her head thrown back, talking to herself. I thought that she was either drunk or out of her mind. It turned out that she was a mother who had just received the news that her son, who had been rounded up in the street, had been shot.

“My child,” she stammered, paying no attention to the other people in the streetcar, “my son. My beautiful, beloved son.”

I too would like to talk to myself like one mad or drunk, the way that woman did in the book of Judges who poured out her heart unto the Lord and whom Eli drove from the Temple.

I may neither groan nor weep. I may not draw attention to myself in the street. And I need to groan; I need to weep. Not four times a year. I feel the need to say Yizkor four times a day.

Yizkor elohim es nishmas avi mori ve’imi morasi... Remember, Oh Lord, the souls of those who passed from this world hor­ribly, dying strange deaths before their time.

“May God remember the soul of my father-and-teacher and of my mother-and-teacher...”

And now, suddenly I seem to see myself as a child stand­ing on a bench behind my mother who, along with my grand­mother and my aunts, is praying before the east wall of the woman’s section of the synagogue in Lanowce. I stand on tiptoe peering down through panes of glass at the congregation in the synagogue that my grandfather built. And just then the Torah reader, Hersh’s son, Meyer-Itsik, strikes the podium three times and cries out with a mighty voice so that he will be heard by men and women on both sides of the partition and by the com­munity’s orphans, boys and girls, who are already standing, waiting for just this announcement: “We recite Yizkor.”

The solemn moment has arrived when we remember those who are no longer with us. Even those who have finished their prayers come in at this time to be with everyone else as they wait for the words, “We recite Yizkor.”

And he who has survived and lives and who approaches this place, let him bow his head and, with anguished heart, let him hear those words and remember his names as I have re­membered mine—the names of those who were destroyed.

At the end of the prayer in which everyone inserts the names of members of his family there is a passage recited for those who have no one to remember them and who, at various times, have died violent deaths because they were Jews. And it is people like those who are now in the majority.