Edgewood School - Bridge Yearbook (Greenwich, CT)

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The Corridor T'S A LONG hall with very few doors. The existing doors lead to the lives of those I love. The windows look out upon places that I've been to, not onto things that I've never seen. If one of my family is afflicted with a sorrow, even if it is slight com- pared to the suffering outside of my own selfish world, my corridor will grow dark. When the sorrow vanishes, my corridor grows light. Once in a great while someone will take me out for a drive along the Hudson River. No matter how bright the sun is, the windows of the car are almost always shut to the outside world, which appears to be dark. But if we ever turn off onto a street that I have had some connection with, the sun will suddenly shine. After we have passed these familiar places, the streets will again grow dark under my indffer- glance. Soon I will be back in my hall, and will feel at home in my own private world, where the problems of the rest of the world never touch, nor bother me. One day I came across a man leaning against the wall of my hall, reading a newspaper. As I passed him, I glanced at the block print on the front page. For one instant I was in a subway, crammed with people from all parts of the outside world. I tried to get the meaning of the words. There were some names that I'd never heard of, and a city which I hadn't thought of since my school days. The walls closed in around me and I was back in my corridor again, walking through my own little world, with only the joys and sorrows that affected myself. A few days ago, I noticed a sign asking for donations for the Red Cross, money or clothes to be sent to Europe. I didn't pay much attention to it. It didn't concern rne. There was another poster that I kept on coming across as I walked down my wall. This one was asking for volunteers for the service. They were also asking for women to join the W.A.C. or W.A.V.E. I certainly would not!! The days went by very slowly in my hall. The same every day problems were getting tiresome. There wasn't anything to hold my interest. It was maddening to look out of a window and see the same old scenes time and again. I wished that my hall would come to an end, but it stretched on straight before me the same as always. War broke out!! A cousin of mine went overseas, and I started getting a daily paper to see what was happening where he was. The walls of my hall were broad- ening. I soon began to realize, that if the war in Europe wasn't stopped, it would spread to America. Ration books were being issued, and all my friends were doing something to help our country. I suddenly wanted to be useful also, and to be in- cluded in what was going on. Then I saw something that I'd never seen before, a bend in the hall. I rounded it and there was an open door! KAY SILBERFELD, '52

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to move and his eyes stared unknowingly at the dark sky. He was now just a mass of bloody flesh slowly mingling with the good earth. THOMAS CHUTE, '48 Perhaps a Vision YES OFTEN play strange tricks on their owners, but somehow I feel that the man I saw on my way home was real. True, I have searched every house and street in this town trying to find him and have spent hours before the house from which I saw him emerge, with no results. Yet to me he was real, and as long as I live I shall search the face of every stranger, look into the eyes of every man I see, with the hope of finding him. He was a tall man, dressed shabbily, his shoes worn, his clothes hanging from his rather stooped shoulders, his face unshaven-oh, that face! The mouth was slightly cruel-no, not cruel, only bitter, the lips twisted into a half smile, as though to say, You do not, cannot, know the futility, the hopelessness, until you have lived as I have. And the eyes, they were sharp and sardonic, but not laughing. I wanted to move away, but the eyes held me, and as I looked into their depths, I found not cynicism, but sadness speaking of such untold suffering that I felt my heart twist, and tears came to my eyes. V There were two deep lines chiseled on either side of his face, seeming to con- nect his mouth with his short, sharp nose. Above all the qualities of the face, I found strength, so intense that it frightened me. To say I was fascinated would be a great understatement. I could not turn away from this man, his dark eyes filled with sad- ness, and his bitter, pitying mouth. Suddenly he lifted his hand, and it did not seem a hand, but looked like a piece of rugged sculpture-, a hand perhaps by Rodin, representing in its every line strength-the strength which had frightened me only a few moments ago. When he looked up, I realized I had been staring. The pity in his expression was harder to bear than the sharpest reprimand and the sadness in his eyes was more punishment than I deserved. Unknowingly, I had put out my hand to see whether he was real. I turned and ran, my heart pounding in my throat, my eyes seeing nothing but the smile, and over the noise of the traffic I heard a soft mocking laugh, following, following, until it caught a heartstring and broke it. ANITA MAXIMILIAN, '49

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H Fate!! HE HORSE and rider were nearly on top of the poor runner who had suddenly tripped. The rider grabbed the runner by his belt and swung him up and across his horse bodily, then rode back to his leader. The leader was a rough looking char- acter with a cruel face who rode a beautiful mount. Still dazed and with terror in his eyes, the prisoner stood before his captor, whom he knew well. Being pressed with a question and refusing to answer, he received a heavy blow across his face from an armoured glove. With blood-stained face he looked back stubbornly. Still refusing to answer, he was hit from behind and got a kick in his face as he fell. just as he was starting to get up off the ground the captor's horse reared, and, as fate would have it, the horse's hooves came down on the prisoner's head. After surveying the dead man on the ground for a few moments, the captor turned, and with a cruelisneer on his lips said, He had a stubborn tongue. Ay, that he had, answered the dead man's friend, It was cut out last year. PAT Joi-1NsoN, '49 Mood It rainsgi Streamers of water Pour over the land. Soft, Pendulent, Drops hit the thirsty earth, Like sparks from the heavens above. Turbid gray oozes Through my window. It seems to envelop me, In a cloud mist The sound of the Beat Beat Beat Of the rain is Hypnotizing To my brain.