Ballad for Americans

Zelitch 81 Simone Zelitch Ballad for Americans (Excerpt from Part One: June 1939) Paul Robeson's voice streamed through the kitchen window: In seventy-six the sky was red! Thunder rumbling overhead! Bad King George couldn't sleep in his bed And on that stormy morn' ?G Uncle Sam was born! It was a tuneful day. Goldie Gold rolled up the sleeves of her cardigan and worked through Lily's black hair with a comb. Sam put on a three cornered hat And in a Richmond Church he sat And Patrick Henry told him that While America drew breath— It was "Liberty or Death"! Ruth called in: "What's that racket!" "Just some song," Lily said. "Sol Stern plays it over and over." Ruth leaned in the kitchen doorway, mussing her damp hair with a towel. "You'd think the Stern boy would have something better to do." Lily straightened. "I thought you'd like it," she said. "It's a Communist song." "Sentimental rubbish!" Ruth threw the towel across her shoulder, opened the icebox, and poured herself a glass of apple juice. "Momma," she said to Goldie, "I won't be home till late. When Harry shows up, tell him I'm at a meeting."Goldie snorted. "So what else is new?" Lily turned in the chair, and asked, "What's the meeting?" Ruth ignored her. She was all dressed in her Communist clothes, the flats and smooth, felt tarn. Lily supposed that there'd be some sort of march. "How come you don't like the Paul Robeson song?" Lily asked, but Goldie took her by the shoulders, and pulled her head back till all she could see were the pink squares that the sun and curtains threw across the ceiling. 82 the minnesota review She could hear Ruth turn her glass upside down in the sink. "Isn't Lily old enough to do her own hair? She's fourteen already." "You go to your meetings," Goldie said. "Allow me my little pleasures. Lily, sit still I tell you. You want I should give you a part like Ridge Avenue?" Nobody who was anybody believed it Everybody who was anybody, they doubted it— Lily stretched out her long legs. Sundays were wonderful. It was nearly nine, and here she was, still in her pajamas and there were hours yet until the Workman's Circle picnic. Spring had come, late but at last. Clear air poured in the kitchen down from Fairmount Park and the trolley bell from Thirtysecond Street set that air quivering, and Paul Robeson's rich, bass voice sang around the window till Lily felt the comb itself sing through her tangled hair. Building a nation is awful tough. The people found the going rough And thirteen states weren't large enough So they started to expand— Into the western land! Paul Robeson had just returned from the Soviet Union, where he was a national hero. Now he was in America to stay. Lily had never seen him, but Ruth had, years before, and she said he looked just like he sounded, deep black, broad, and masterly. And now he sang all of American History right through Solly's window. Still nobody who was anybody believed it. Everybody who was anybody they stayed at home. On Sundays, Lily could rest her head in Goldie 's hands and close her eyes, and pretend she was enfeebled and romantic, or, better, Rebecca the Fair Jewess of the house of York, and in the next room lay pale and wounded Ivanhoe. A servant would gather her black hair into a snood and she'd approach the stricken knight with the secret salve of Miriam. Lily Gold had read Ivanhoe four times. She knew that, in the end, Ivanhoe would leave Rebecca for a silly blonde, and she ached with the injustice of it all. Ruth slammed the front door, and Goldie gave Lily's hair a tug. She flinched. "Mamma, I'm not made of taffy!" Zelitch 83 "That Harry Grantz, she wants to break his heart," Goldie said. "So she goes to meetings." "Well, she's a Communist," said Lily. "They go to a lot of meetings." Lily...