Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

Page 26 text:

22 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. trembling voice cried, “A greater Power has taken my boy from me. My son has gone to serve a greater Master.” Her weeping then began anew, as she bent over the body, disregarding the presnc of the soldiers. The guards after a moment’s pause turned and departed. As their footsteps died away, the woman’s sobbing ceased and she jumped up. Going to the door, she latched it and glanced cautiously out of the window. “We are safe,” she said in a hushed voice. “Come, Dimitry.” But the white mound did not move. Thinking that her son had not heard her, she exclaimed cheerfully, “Have no fear, my dear. They have gone.” But there was no movement from the figure on the floor. Bending over her son, Mrs. Kominsky pulled away the sheet. As she did so, a cry escaped from her. As if in a daze, she began to shake her son, calling his name frantically over and over again. But the form remained motionless. Slowly the truth dawned upon her. The terror and suspense had been too great a strain for the delicate Dimitry. With a stifled cry, she sank to the floor. Outside dark night had descended. The rain poured down furiously and the wind howled around the little hut. In the morning, a villager found the two bodies, the son clasped in his mother’s arms. Bessie Pressman, ’26. LITTLE JOE The city clock had just finished striking the hour of 11, when any one who happened to be passing the Fireside Orphan Asylum on the outskirts of Brook¬ lyn, might have seen a rope of rags, knotted securely in different places, lowered from a window on the second floor. Soon a face appeared and the body of a child became visible. He quickly slid down the rope and when he reached the ground, darted into the shadows and made his way toward the wall. As he reached the sidewalk a man rounded the corner. The child jumped behind a nearby tree, but too late, for the man had seen him. When the man reached the tree, he placed his hand on the child’s shoulder. “Well, sonny, what are you doing here this late? Does your old man know you’re out?” he said. “I ain’t got no old man. Please, mister, let me go. I don’t wanta go back!” “Back where? Did you say you ain’t got no father nor mother? You’re kinda young, seems to me, to be running wild at this hour.” “I said I didn’t wanta go back to that awful place. I can take care of my¬ self, sir, ’cause I’m past nine. If my mother was here, she’d want me to go shift for myself, too, ’cause she always said experience, or something like that, was a grave teacher.” “Well, how would you like to come bunk with me? My old woman will give ya a bite to eat.” The two figures moved slowly down the street. Upon inquiring the man found out that the child’s name was Joe Stanley and he told him in return that Joe might call him Fred. Finally they turned into a dark alley. The child clutched the man by the coat after he had stumbled over a drunken body. Soon the man opened a door and taking the child by the hand, he led him through a room where men were drinking, gambling and cursing. In a remote corner even a fight was being staged. They entered an inner room where a stout, red faced woman sat reading by the light of a kerosene lamp. She glanced up.

Page 25 text:

THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 21 IN THE HUT. (This story won the fourth prize of $15 in the 1926 Seventh Annual Short Story Contest conducted by the Boston Traveler. 1425 stories were submitted in the contest, which was open to all High School students of New England. A story by Jacob Broudy appeared in the list of twenty-five “Stories of Distinction,” selected by Mr. Rugg, Traveler Editor, for especial commendation, and stories by the following Milford High School Seniors were listed among the 125 “Honorable Mention” stories: Miss Estelle Harlowe, Miss Ruth Despeau, Miss Blanche Marcus, Miss Eva Ramee and Edward L. Mitchell. The stories by Miss Harlowe and Edward Mitchell are printed in this issue.) In the outskirts of a little Russian village stood the hut of the Widow Kom- insky. Within the dingy dwelling sat the Widow with her only son clasped in her embrace. This was in 1860, at the time when a law of Russia required that each city or town give up yearly a certain number of boys between the age of fourteen and twenty to train for military service. Mrs. Kominsky had been warned that at six o’clock that day they were coming for her boy, the most precious thing in her life. “Dimitry, they’ll not take you away from me,” she sobbed. “The good Lord will help me find a way to keep us from being parted.” Dimitry, a delicate youth of fifteen, looked up and answered through his tears, “But mother dear, money is the only thing that would save me from the guards and there is no way to get it.” “They’ll never bring you back to me. The work is only for husky lads,” she moaned. “But, Dimitry dear, they shall not take you from me. The good Lord will show us a way.” Ill luck had seemed to be the Widow Kominsky’s portion ever since her husband’s death. And now her most sacred possession was to be wrested from her. Over and over in her mind ran the words, “They shall not take him; they shall not take him.” Minutes passed but the grief-stricken woman did not move. The boy rose and walked to the window. The thought of leaving his be¬ loved mother, his sole companion because of frequent illness, to go into severe military training with strangers filled him with fear. Terror and anxiety were clearly depicted on his thin face. Finally the woman rose with a joyful cry. “Dimitry, my boy, they will not take you! I have a plan.” She then proceeded to unfold her plan eagerly. At one point the boy suppressed a shudder and said, “Mother, I am afraid.” His mother quickly replied cheerfully, “Fear not, my dear. The Lord has devised this plan for me.” It was near six o’clock. The three guards marched noisily up to the hut. One of them knocked loudly on the door. A woman’s sobs and weeping could be heard from within. On receiving no answer but the continued wails of the woman, they opened the door. As the soldiers entered, they stepped back in sur¬ prise at the unexpected sight that met their eyes. In the dim twilight was the bent figure of a woman, weeping over a mound of white on the floor. On either side of the mound were lighted candles that cast a deathly light over the room. “Madame,” began the spokesman of the guards, “We have come for your son, Dimitry Kominsky.” The grief-stricken woman lifted her eyes and in a

Page 27 text:

THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 23 “Say, Kit, put your paper aside for a couple of seconds and get the kid a bite to eat, .will ya? He can bunk with me.” Kit called little Joe ,to her and Joe realized that he had found two friends. •In a .short time Kit and Fred Scrutz had grown to love Joe. Something worried the little fellow, however, although he did not mention it. He had noticed that four or five nights a week Fred went out and sometimes didn’t return until nearly morning. One. night when Joe entered the back room he saw two men and his Uncle Fred, as he now called him, seated around a table. The three were bending over a paper and as he ' entered; one said, “What about the kid there? He could get through this cellar window, go up the stairs, open the door and let us in.” “No!” said Fred Scrutz. ' . . . “Oh, the devil!” answered the other, “What do you care if he knows you re a thief. What in h—‘do you care? He’s no better than you.” After much arguing, Scrutz reluctantly agreed. Joe suddenly realized why the man he had trusted had gone out nights. He knew also that it was wrong for him to do his uncle’s bidding, yet, if Fred had not taken him in, what would have become of him? He owed obedience to this man! Later he would beg his uncle to give up this life. The next night two men and a child might have been seeen walking cau¬ tiously up the driveway of a fashionable house. They proceeded slowly and carefully until they reached a low window. After looking around, one man took an instrument from his pocket and opened the window. A few minutes elapsed and then a door was opened cautiously and the two men entered. They pro¬ ceeded into the kitchen. A small stifled cry of pain came from the child, whose arm had bumped against the stove. A hand was quickly placed over Joe’s mouth to prevent further sounds. The house was again silent. Scrutz looked at the piece of paper with the flashlight and the two, followed by the child, moved toward a cabinet in the next room. After a drawer had been opened, Scrutz took from his pocket a bag, in which he began to silently place silverware. Crash! He had dropped a knife and the sound echoed throughout the house. The two men made their way, with silent haste, to the door, leaving the bewildered child standing alone. Soon a step was heard on the stairs and the boy groped his way to what appeared to be a sofa. Hastily he crawled behind it just as the room became flooded with light. A man appeared in the doorway, revolver in hand. Behind him stood a young girl. They advanced slowly looking in the closet, behind chairs and every possible place but the sofa. They disappeared into another room and then in a few minutes reappeared. Slowly they advanced toward the sofa! The man seated himself. “Surely, father, you had a nightmare. There is absolutely no one in the house,” the young lady said. “Maybe so, but I was sure I heard something. Let us go to bed then.” The two started for the door, and Joe, thinking they had departed, started to move from his cramped position. A revolver shot rang out! Three days later a child’s funeral moved slowly toward the cemetery. An observer might have seen a man who had recently responded to the name of Uncle Fred, his head bow r ed, standing on a corner, whi le tears trickled down his cheeks as the short procession moved on. Estelle Harlowe, 26 .