The Greystone's Wall

“If walls could talk…” I know of one. It told me this.

Death does not work on your timeline. That’s for sure. Watching the dandelions grow, wither, reblossom and seed, only to fall away as the winter turns cold and the sky falls darker is not the path of most of us. I’ve seen a couple people follow that path. The Bellichko boy, he was like that. I saw him born in this house, still when mommas didn’t magically appear from the car holding a wrapped infant in their arms. That was a nice family, the Bellichkos. Strong, hard working dad from the old country providing for his, I guess at the time, young wife, the newly minted Mila Bellichko. He was so proud of that child for the first few years with him - Pavel. Got real angry though later, the dad did, and the boy didn’t know what to do when his father got that back hand coming at him. Pavel figured it out though, like the kids always do. I’m amazed at how often those kids figure it out by doing what their parents did. Giving someone else a smack cause that’s what their parents gave them. That's how they were taught to hold power: by force. The Altschuls, their son, Baruch, was pretty smart and not prone to violence but he learned how to do it from his mother. A quick slap got his attention whenever his mom had lost her patience. This was the first family that didn’t have their kids here. Seven children brought home in that De Soto Six Deluxe, the ‘six’ for the extra two seats in the back where the trunk should be. That car sat outside these Austin neighborhood streets most every night. Usually right out front, which was nice, right on this street full of Brownstones and Greystones lining each side with that ostentatious grandeur of a rebuilding city - post fire Chicago from what I heard in conversations from the Bellichkos. Must have been a great fire, ‘cause there was a lot of open land. That’s when I went up. Saw the whole Austin neighborhood street build up with me, fresh and young and new house happy - saw it from looking out this front room window. Horses and buggies gave way to a few of those steel and rubber family cars like the De Soto, then flair on those cars in the 60’s when the Robinsons moved in and now that no one is here, the street is filthy with them. All kinds and in different states of repair too, most of them now smaller than the Altschul's De Soto.

I got to see those new bundles get out of the backseat of it, held so gently and firmly by their mother, Mrs. Leah Altschul, Baruch being the first. They were proud of him too, saying he was ‘a blessing on this house.’ Then they would start singing the blessing: ‘Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Ha’Olam…’ and Mr Altschul hammered a small portion of the Torah in the doorway so that everyone was blessed that stays in this house as well as the covenant they shared with God when you come in and go out. It was interesting to me, becoming Jewish all of a sudden. It felt no different than with the Bellichko’s, who were Christian but not as devoted to their religion as the Altschuls. They came here more for work than religious reasons. The Altschuls talked of friends and relatives ‘back home’ that died or left in the pogroms, coming here to get a new community that didn’t threaten them. But they had their share of looks from across the street that they minded and watched out the window for every now and again.

The Bellichkos moved in right after this neighborhood got built. A bunch of other people that looked a lot like the Bellichkos moved into the Greystones across the street. But the Altschuls were a bit different than the rest of the neighborhood. They went to services on Saturday, not Sunday. They never had a pork roast, which I gotta say was my least favorite item about the new owners. I missed the smells circling around the house when that was in the oven and Mrs. Bellichko got to cooking. Just waiting for the baked apples she put out and brightly pickled beets all pink and rosy, puts a nostalgia on me that I do not want to shake. Also, the Altschuls did not put up a Christmas tree that the Bellichkos had always put in the front window looking out over the street. They put a menorah there for the neighborhood to see.

The Robinsons put a tree up - and that was a fine, fine sight. Sterling and Vivian Robinson had the benefit of electricity, something the Bellichkos never had. They had always put a candle in the metal trap and lit it before hanging it on the tree which gave a softer feel to it than the Robinson's tree. The Robinson's tree had life; bright and full familied life. I did like the dried fruit the Bellichkos, strung together and wrapped around theirs, but that is just me loving the smells of that family and Mrs. Bellichko doing something wonderful with food. They pooped outside too. Didn’t have to smell that. The Altschul's put in the indoor plumbing which is convenient for the families but does not do much for me just standing here looking out the window waiting for ventilation.

I will always remember that first smack - on each boy. I would just get to thinking that everything is fine and the problems of the previous family are not the same as this one and then a crack across the face followed by a steady stream of tears. It’s tough, watching that parent abuse their authority, thinking they were doing what was best for the boy. By the time Sterling Robinson smacked his boy, Terrell, I had seen the story repeat enough times. I get wrapped up in these families’ lives and get myself to hoping for the best, when after so long I should know better. Terrell weathered his beating like the other two, Pavel the closed fists, Baruch the open, but Terrell took the belt. Sterling and Vivian yelled about it more than once and Sterling got up saying that he learned to be good this way from his dad, and his dad learned it from his dad, who learned it from his before that.

“You mean the man that learned it from the owner?” Vivian shouted, which stopped Mr. Robinson in the middle of the argument. “Where did he learn it from? How far back are we gonna go?”

“You need to be quiet.” Sterling said.

“Don’t you see where this framework comes from?!” she shouted. “It can stop.”

“And the boy won’t toughen up.”

“You are teaching him that hitting someone is ok. Which it is not.”

“So when they throw things at the house, I’m supposed to teach him not to fight back? Us and the Hintons are the only black folk on this block and I’m sure you noticed this community is nervous as hell that we’re here.”

“You’re teaching him that violence is an acceptable response.”

“When you’re defending yourself.”

“Against a seven year old boy? How did he threaten you?” and she would laugh. Calling him a ‘big man’ staring at him, almost baiting him to step to her. She, trying to prove to Sterling that it was more about his anger than that of preparing Terrell for the brutal life Sterling was certain lived outside these walls. Terrell would hear all of this. Even though his back and rear were newly bruised, he sat on the step three from the bottom, listening to his parents shout. He sat quiet too and did not let out a sob, so as not to let his parents know that he was there.

Sterling wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part about it. Baruch came home bloody one day from the kids at school saying he didn’t belong. I saw him sit on the porch steps for twenty minutes bleeding on his uniform before getting the courage to face his mother. He cried for all the reasons boys cry when they are small. She just shouted about the boys at his school and the blood now stained on his collar, then told him he needed to learn how to fight. Pavel stumbled in from the front porch more than once when his dad would push him through it, angry over something that happened at the job or on the way back from it.

“I’m trying to instill a work ethic in you.” his father would say, then bruise his eye as Pavel would look at him. Pavel, he was just so confused by the whole thing. This is the man that could be so proud of him and at the same time so callus. Honestly I was too. I didn’t see what happened between the two, but I remember Mr. Bellicko absolutely beaming at the sight of his son when he was born and seven or eight years later he’s punching him.

The Robinson’s, Ms. Vivian really, had the worst of it. She kept a nice yard. The flowers were out front on either side of the porch popping up something special, I’m sure, against the bleached gray of the house. It sure looked like yellow roses climbing up post high to the railing at the base of the steps. I could see the ivy from the front room and how it wrapped around the outline of the house. That must’ve been something; roses close to the house and ivy wrapping around the border with the lawn all shiny green in the sun. I look across the street and see how other people did theirs and I know Ms. Viv with her brightening quality of everything green would show them out. That woman had an eye.

Every once in a while something would get thrown. Beets on the steps - Mrs. Bellicko would throw a fit for wasting good beets. Paint too. A rock at the glass paned door, though lucky the tosser hit the wood. They would’ve been smarter to aim at my window, the large one with a view of the street from the front room. Each time a car would drive slow with the lights off and always at night, throw what they thought they needed to throw and peel off. After each ‘incident,’ what Viv called them when she told her friends about it on the phone, she had scrubbed, repainted, and cleaned up the mess to make her house look good again.

“Percy Julian had fire thrown at his place in Oak Park ‘bout a month ago.” Sterling said once. Either he was saying that times were crazy or that the Robinson’s had it better here in Austin than one town over, I could never tell. But the worst was when one of those cars drove up on the green grass in the dead of night and spun their tires on the lawn, throwing dirt and mud onto the front of the house and steps. The next morning Ms. Viv took out the hose and washed down the house and patched up the green grass as best she could, throwing seed down where the mud shown through the patchwork. I think I’ve always been a fan of summer since then. I like that green grass growing old and new, covering up the scars from that lawn over time.

Just like they were taught, those boys all went off to fight. All three came in in their uniform and looked sharp and keen on doing well. Terrell was drafted when he turned eighteen and wore that dark green with the side cap. He was the most even and understanding of the situation of those boys. Sterling was not.

“I do not want you fighting a white man's war for this country that has taken so much from us.” he said.

“The Army did not take mom from us.” Terrel said back. “That was something else entirely, dad.”

“I’m talking about more than her.” he snapped. “And you know that.”

Terrel left it at that, and left his father to the house alone. Really, I think that’s what Sterling was most afraid of. Terrell came back every so often on leave, but Sterling died in bed while Terrel was finishing his second tour. He came home to an empty house.

Baruch enlisted and joined up with the Navy. He heard the stories and rumors of what was happening to Jewish people in Europe and wanted to prove to his mother that he could be strong; liberate their brothers and sisters in faith. She was proud when he left, fighting for such a just cause. But then understandably manic when they got the news his boat sank by German torpedo off the coast of France. She openly wondered why she pushed him so hard to be so tough and talked to the air as if it was him, periodically, for the rest of her life.

Pavel grew like that dandelion. Strongest of the three boys and a full head of bright blonde hair that caught a few young ladies' eyes before he left. The wool doughboy uniform fit around his muscular body as leopard skin, showing just enough of the quick and powerful physique underneath. He was strong and confident like his father and worked hard like him once he became an adult. A mini parade from family friends and a few women who were looking to be more than friends, gathered as he walked down the Greystone steps out front. He got a handshake and a one armed hug from Mr. Bellichko on the sidewalk. Then he dropped the hug with his one arm and gripped his son’s shoulder to shake it like a proud father. It sure looked like the best moment in each man’s life, each one holding the other’s hand and looking at their face some years away, eyeing what could be and could have been. The moment hung for less than it should have and each man ended it quickly. Pavel got on the back of a wagon, waving goodbye as he left out of view.

The Pavel that returned was the withered and broken one seeming to be apart from himself, never wanting sound or noise of any kind. Sitting on the porch out front he would just start crying uncontrollably, until his angry father or sensitive mother would take him back inside Every once in a while the blossoms would come out, like when Mila Bellichko would put out a lovely spread and the quiet, shy, and down looking Pavel would raise his head to smile for a moment. But it would fade like the seeds blowing away, pieces of him falling off in the wind.

I am still here. After holding the roof up over the families’ heads, protecting them from the wind and rain and the brutality of that Chicago weather, the same violence that gets visited on them outside these walls just repeats in here on a smaller scale. But they did learn it here first, right, then took it out? Or did it come in and they learned it?

Now there is no family inside this house. No new children coming in from cars and growing up, getting stronger. Sometimes a squatter sits in residence only to leave without mention. So, I hold up an empty house, a shell of what I know can live here. I see the time pass through this front window and mark the days until the green comes back to the grass and I with these walls have a new people to protect.