The child was very young, perhaps four or five years old. He clung to her right hand as if there was no thought of his ever letting go. She seemed to minister to his need, and, as a consequence, she had great difficulty maneuvering three books to the counter with her left hand. She presented her library card.
I heard her say to the child, "You know, you have to return these books after you have finished with them."
"Why?" the boy asked.
"Because they belong to the library," she said, "and then you can borrow some more."
Clearly this was his first introduction to books.
The woman was austere. She wore no make-up. She was tall and thin, and I marveled she could reach so far down to allow the boy the security of her hand, which he still clutched. He was small. From his garb I guessed he had already been introduced to the world of objective truth--perhaps an introductory taste of self-abnegation. He wore a Yarmulka and the fringes ordained by Torah, hung loosely below his leather jacket. There was more than security in that gentle hand that he grasped. There was a bond between them, and the promise she would still be there for him when he felt he could release her from that grasp. Three books to start him on his journey of learning and discipline, a quest that began when the world was young.
I felt a twinge of jealousy. In my childhood, books were not a primary consideration. There was school; but that was a requirement of the laws of this new country to which my father had emigrated. Beyond this requirement, books were a frivolity. There was my father's store. It was summer and vacation time from school. One was never too young to learn about work.
The years fall away. I am perhaps a year or so older than the boy in the library. I am on my way to work. It is my first trip alone from the Bronx to Manhattan. I remember. I can hear the rumbling of the massive Third Avenue elevated train that snaked its way, high upon massive pillars of steel, towards the 149th Street Station, where one debarked for the IRT, that thunderous subterranean Seventh Avenue express that would take me to my destination.
So it was, on that day, I descended to the underground station in time for the arrival of the train which was screeching to its customary halt. I was confident and proud that I would accomplish this trip alone and unaided. I had come this way several times before, but not by myself. But the sounds were familiar so I mounted the train, savoring the praise that would surely come from my father and the other admiring adults at the store.
When the train made a turn I did not recognize, terror set in. When it made its first stop, my terror increased. "Mott Street" said the signs on the massive terra cotta walls. When the few passengers who had entered the train with me were gone, I was alone in a silent, high-domed vastness. Distant footsteps echoed menacingly.
Passengers for the next train began to arrive. The enormity of my peril, not another nickel for fare, even if I knew how to get back. I began to cry. A crowed gathered about me. My tearful incoherence made no sense to anyone. Many of the put nickels an dimes into my hands "You took the wrong train," was repeated over and over again Everyone had advice which I did not understand. Finally, a woman took me by the hand and led me to an overpass that traversed the tracks. We rode back, together, her hand still holding mine. We recrossed the tracks as a train was arriving. I started forward. She restrained me. "It's the wrong one," she said. "There are two Seventh Avenue Expresses at this station.
She was still holding my hand as she placed me on the correct car She bent down, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and a quarter.
I was one dollar and forty cents richer--an enormous sum I have no recollection on how I spent this fortune, but I still remember the kiss and the comforting warmth of her hand.
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