Calhoun School - Ink Pot Yearbook (New York, NY)

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Q 1936 INK POT ' Faith T HE wind howled and blew the sleet in all directions. lt was a wretched night, a night in which a mother should be home before a blazing fire telling bedtime stories to a sleepy-eyed child. But for Anna life was not like that, warm and cozy, but hard and cold. She was walking now with her head down, her chin against her chest, to brace herself from the wind's sharp fangs. Laughter from above caused her to jerk her head and look upward. Glancing into the window she saw young men and women, warm and gay, laughing and joking, with evidently nothing better to do than drink to each other's health in champagne. She turned away with a disgusted look and muttered to herself, They squander money, those young fools. While people starve and fight for life they drink champagne. A chuckle escaped her, but the almost black eyes fiamed with fire and vengeance. Soon she came to the poorer section where in the midst of the bitter cold she came upon the Temple and entered its holy portals. Its very silence was reverent. She sat down in a pew and soon her face relaxed from its tense expression and the dark eyes filled with tears. One could see from the finely chiselled nose that she was not common. Folding her hands, she lifted earnest eyes and said, Why am I here begging help from YOU? ls it because I'm a Jew? Surely that cannot be the whole truthful reason. Tell me, dear Lord, how can I keep from becoming like my parents and grandparents. They cringed, shied from the fact that they were Jews, because the people told them they were no earthly good in this world. That is not true, I know it, I feel it. Help me to keep my courage, restore my failing faith in my religion, my people, and myself. She sat quietly for a moment, not an eyelash blinked, not a finger moved, and then she got up and went into the cold night, head up, shoulders back. As she reached the top flight of stairs leading to her room, she heard the lusty cry of her baby. Opening the door, she ran to the crib and picked up the soft bundle, smothering it with kisses. You want your supper, don't you, darling? she said, and went to the closet to get some milk. She heated the milk, put some in a bottle and gave it to the child. Then she put him to bed and rocked him to sleep. When the dark eyes had closed in contented slumber, she lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. The room was very small, but she kept it immaculate. Slowly her gaze turned to the child and filled with tender compassion. Little Ralph, she whispered, your struggle won't be as hard as mine, for I shall make it easier for you if I can. But, my darling, always remember, never give up your hopes or faiths, for where there's hope and faith there's life. The next morning dawned cold and crisp. When Anna awoke the sun was streaming into the one small window. She dressed quickly, made her breakfast and her child's and went over to Ralph. After dressing him, she took him to the janitor, who kept him for her while she looked for work. Emerging from the house, young, hopeful and lovely, she gave no inkling of the rebellion that surged in her heart for those who make life so difiicult. Walking to the car, she took out a nickel and rode to her destination. Upon entering the room she noticed that there were many ahead of her. Finally when it was her turn, the man asked, Age ?', Thirty,,' she replied. Experience ? None in this line, she answered Religion ? he shot at her, and the beady eyes were cold as he awaited the answer. Her body stiffened, but she answered steadily, I am a Jewessf' Sorry, you won't do. Next, he called impersonally. Thirty-nine

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Q 1936 INK POT Q a profound touch of tragedy, so true of the sea, has added drama to an otherwise happy ending. Captain Saulters, master of the ship, was found by the rescue party dead upon the bridge. Tenderly, but firmly grasped in his hand was the faded picture of a beautiful young girl dressed in a bridal costume. -Ik it -JK BK' -Ni 'IF -Ili BK' -lk' -JF -JK' The little old lady was still rocking in her chair. Her rocking was reminiscent of surf breaking against a rockbound shore and washing over a dead body. Thank God, she softly murmured, I knew he would redeem himself for the failure of his first ship if given the chance, I knew John Saulters was a good man when I married him. And the rocking chair slowly creaked on. JOAN JACOBSON, '38. The CdP,7l SO I takes the black-guard by the neck, and with me own two hands, I feeds him to the sharks. Ooh, did you really, Cap'n ? asked a saucer-eyed pigtail. The Cap'n shook his head in assent as he removed a battered old sailor's cap from a mop of thick, flaming hair. Now, with the sun playing brilliantly on it, it seemed to take a fierce, fiery glow which did not at all befit this mild old man of the sea. Sitting there, smiling amiably at his audience, composed mainly of children, he puffed at his ancient pipe which had long since become part of him. One of the village gossips had said, Ei ye wants to find the Cap'n, look fer his pipe. A strange thing to say about a man, but then, everything about the Cap'n was strange. His love for children was one of the things the villagers of this quiet New England town could not grasp. He Was a large, well-built man with a pale, smooth, almost girlish complexion, more like a city-fellar than the old sea captain he claimed to be. His large knuckled hands were clumsy, but, when he offered the always magically filled cookie jar to his small friends, they seemed to be the nicest, kindest, I1l0St adept hands those young eyes had ever seen. Ah, but his eyes! They had a magnetic pull to their softness which compelled you to look at his almost huge, dominating Hgure. Those eyes, sad and sorrowful, yet gay and twinkling, were full of expression, they were his personality, they were him. The beak-nosed, gossipy spinsters could not understand him. lVIany years ago he had come to live among them and had bought the small shack at the ocean's edge. On stormy nights people said he walked the beach, sobbing bitterly, and no matter how much the doctor had warned him against it, a large figure could be seen trudging the beach on nights when most people would not set foot out of their houses. The last of the cookies had disappeared, and with it his little audience. The sea giant had seated himself in his creaking old rocker and unfolded a yellowed newspaper article. A sweet, girlish face was smiling adoringly at a small, snub-nosed boy. His eyes were twinkling, and if the picture had been in color one would have seen that he had the same flaming hair as the Cap'n. Under the picture words could still be read, but faintly: Wife and son of young captain lost at seaf' The article told of a young man who had taken his wife and son on his first voyage as Captain. The ship had met a horrible fate in a treacherous sea. The Cap'n sighed wearily and looked out toward the ocean, searchingly, yearn- ingly. None knew the reason for the sad, painful look in those merry old eyes. LILLIAN FIcHTENHoI.Tz, '39, Thirty-eight

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Q 1936 INK POT ' But Anna had already thrown herself at him pleadingly. Please, she cried, I have a son, my husband is dead and our food is giving out. That's your worry, he replied, but behind those heady eyes, there was perhaps a little sympathy, mixed with admiration for the woman who stood before him, not fiinching, but with steady eyes and an erect body. She walked from the room, shoulders back, head high, but when she emerged all will power had left her. She looked years older and her figure bespoke an air of despondency. Months passed and still she found no work. At last, in desperation, she placed her child upon the cold steps of an elaborate home. Pinning on the warm blanket a note, Take care of my child or place him in a home. He is a Jew, but how can a little child help that? If you keep him tell him his mother loved him, and that he should never forget to fight for his rights, but if in despair he should always remember to have faith and hope, for if one has those two things there's life. She kissed him again and walked slowly away. She did not know how long she had walked, but soon she came to the Temple and halted suddenly. She gazed at it in awe and, finally, mustering all her strength she limped onward. Wearily she climbed the steps and then, as the last time, she was alone. She could not reach the pew, and she sank to her knees on the cold stone floor. With her last breath she prayed, Dear Lord, grant a dying woman one last wish. Take care of my son and guide him and his people to glory and peace. EDITH WILSON, '39. One Rainy October Night MY cab pulled up to the corner and stopped with a short jerk. Upper New York lay black and shining in the rain of October 10, 1935, at six-thirty o'clock. Trolleys groaned along One Hundred and Twentieth street, and here and there a one-time luxurious automobile honked its horn, slammed on its brakes and went screeching around the curb with an alley of water splashing the nearby pedestrians. The red, blue and yellow lights of Loew's Motion Picture House and Keith's R. K. O. lay in the reflection of puddles of the heavy downpour. The Broadway Heights are crowded with people hurrying to and fro along the streets. A man bumps into a lady carrying parcels from Woolworth's, the string comes undone, she scowls and utters something beneath her breath, he begs a quick, meaningless pardon. Then he hurries on into the movie, pausing but for a brief moment to gaze at the picture of Joan Crawford, glamorously gowned and illuminating. He fingers for his change, pays the cashier and enters the show. A young woman emerges hurriedly from the sweet, homey, delightfully smelling Cushman's, a small boy clings to her laden-down arms, she holds her umbrella with difficulty, they rush for the crossing, she bumps umbrellas with another, but is safely across the street. On the corner below the lights of Liggett's drug store stands a young lady, apparently waiting for someone. Her hat is pulled cockney fashion over her right eye, her coat is held tightly about her neck, one button is gone, her flimsy hose are clinging with wetness to her ankles, her shoes are soggy and wet with water. She gazes impatiently up and down, up and down. No one comes. The light has changed, my cab drives on. JULIET F1scHL, '36. Forty