Page 42 - WTP Vol. VII #6

Childhood (continued from preceding page)
‘spy’ gave the title a sweet thrill. I whispered the title to myself in the halls at school and at night in bed. I loved the words but they frightened me, and for protection I would sing the Shema softly into my blanket:
But the man had a mustache and thick unkempt brown hair; he took the pipe out of his mouth, glanced at the book in a bored way and rang up the machine.
Shema Yisroel Adonai Elohenu Adonai Echud.
Now, with my mother watching television, I pulled the book out of my bag. The glossy cover felt slightly damp under my warm fingertips.
I saved my allowance, skipping gum and lifesavers, so that I could buy the book. My parents had begun to allow me to take the bus with a friend to the shopping district on Fordham Road. Before coming home that af- ternoon, I had gone to the bookstore on Fordham Road and the Grand Concourse. Not wanting to say the title of the book out loud, I did not ask a store clerk for help. I stood in the paperback book section, scanning the shelves from A until N, where I found the book. I held
The book opened with a delicious crackle. How smooth were the pages! I turned them slowly, one
by one, until I reached the beginning of the story. I read the first paragraph, then the first page. It was incomprehensible. Stunned, I closed the book on my desk and looked at the lights in the apartment houses across the street.
it in my hands and gazed at the black and white cover. My friend, impatient, dragged me to the man at the cash register. Possibly he would not allow me to buy it—the word "love” was almost forbidden in my house.
My mother banged open the door.
“Didn’t you hear me call you? What are you doing?” “Reading.” But my book was closed.
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