98
PARTISAN REVIEW
existed in our world-on those memorable " occasions" when the sensual
expectancy remained in the nostrils long after all else had faded. Visions of
paradise , clouds floating across the deep-blue darkness , a rallying of
adventurers in the Bronx . Even the lobby of Niles Gardens had its imitation
medieval battle flags and stuffed red-velvet chairs and a heavy oak table. The
window fleur-de-lis called forth the Prince Valient in each of us . We could
play at being crusaders, even if we were not Christians .
Niles Gardens had a back entrance , too . Actually , it was no more than a
wide walk but children and adults alike called it "the backyard ." Beyond
that, an empty glass-and bottle-strewn lot ran the length of the block, until it
dropped twenty feet into the cyclone-fenced yard at the bottom of the hill.
The yard belonged
to
the Episcopalian church which fronted Bainbridge
Avenue . In the less treacherous part of the lot , where it had been more or less
levelled , we played baseball and punchball ; in the part that had been left
rocky and treacherous, we played cowboys and Indians . In winter , we went
belly-whopping over the rock-and bottle-strewn terrain on make-shift sleds.
There was a small brick embankment into which we would steer . If you missed
the embankment , you plunged ten feet down into the ditch . In the fall, we
roasted potatbes over hot coals embedded in the rocks . Sometimes we spent
hours trying to melt down the cheap lead soldiers you bought in the
five-and -ten . Lead or potatoes, the smell of smoke and the brisk chill of
approaching winter promised more than our failures could deny .
Niles Gardens was where I made my first emotional investments . I had
friends there , the security of hallways and stairwells I knew even in the dark , a
known territory . And I had my cousin Leo, two years older than I was,
reluctantly serving as the older brother I wanted . But even at the age ofeight, I
knew that the people who lived in Niles Gardens were provincials , that we did
not count for very much beyond Rochambeau Avenue. Niles Gardens , no
matter how much I loved it, was hardly suitable for streets that memorialized
this
America's past. Still,
if
our skirmishes with history were minimal , at least
they were ours . We weren't the destiny that the nation wanted, but we could
claim a destiny . That was something .
Niles Gardens took me into the world . I fust learned about death there .
We had our suicide, an old man whom we children called "Turtle Soup ."
Dry, angry face, drooping gray walrus mustache, a cane that was carved and
gnarled as if it had been cut for a European executioner. He was a German
Jew . There weren't many GermanJews in the neighborhood . Those that there
were kept their distance. We used to torment Turtle Soup as he slowly walked
down Rochambeau Avenue . We would run about ten feet in front of him,
taunting him , watching gleefully as he raised his cane to slash the air. Our
relationship to him was personal , and we took his suicide as an indictment. He
