He wandered past the ghetto, listening to the children sing. Badly, he might add, but they were still singing. His remaining newspapers were clenched loosely in one hand, staining his fingertips a permanent black.
He walked almost in a trance, still hearing the children's voices sing in his head. A makeshift school, he thought, or maybe a factory, or even just a home. Full of them.
Them. Like himself. He slowly put one foot in front of the other, his eyes studying the ground, trying to wish the voices away. The song tore at his heart. He remembered his mother singing it when he was little. When they came over on the boat. That big boat that made everyone add green to the blue of the sea.
He remembered seeing Her. Tall and majestic and promising, with one hand raised to the sky and a sign at her feet. He couldn't read it then. He probably could now. He'd asked his mother. She just had told him to hush and hurry along.
He remembered being inspected before he could go into the New Country. This country, his mother told him, was flowing with milk and honey and had streets paved with gold. He thought it sounded sticky.
The streets were dirty, muddy, hard, black. The only thing that flowed in the land was booze and immigrants. The only promise here had been escape from the old country. Opportunity, his mother had said. Yeah, he'd gone from a store sweeper to a shoe shiner to a newsie in the first few years.
They settled near here. And there, once. He looked up at a fading storefront. They had shopped here, too. A few years here, a few years there, always in worry of eviction, always fearful of the money mongers who controlled his father.
Kde domov můj, kde domov můj?He remembered that song. A song from the old land. He could probably even translate the words now. If he'd wanted to.
No. Let the old land stay with the old land.
Kde domov můj, kde domov můj?The haunting strains drove him away. The strains kept him coming back. He had customers here. In this part of New York. Where the tenements were closer together than the roaches that infested them. The disease spread so quickly there. One day a slum house was there and the next the half of it was sick and out of work.
He was strong. His mother had told him so as she lay dying. She'd reached out to him with a trembling, work-worn hand and caressed his face ever so carefully. Then his skin began to feel cold. He left that day. No one was there anymore. Why should he stay?
Kde domov můj, kde domov můj?Sometimes someone recognized him. Karloff's boy, all grown up, eh? You still sellin' papes like ya did at six? Here, have a penny, and come back tomorrow, so I can reopen your past for all it's wounds and rub salt in them.
It wasn't a sad past. Nothing unusual. Nothing completely evil, nor completely dull. It was nothing to him. So why was it everything?
He hummed as he reached the Lodging House. The words transformed themselves in his head. He pushed open the door of the House, wishing it didn't creak so loud. He'd have to talk to someone about that.
He'll stay another few years. Maybe less. Maybe head out west one day.
One more stop in the gypsy lifestyle.
Where is my home, where is my homeWater bubbles across the meadows
Pinewoods rustle among crags
The garden is glorious with spring blossoms
And this is that beautiful land, my home
The Czech land, my home
The Czech land, my home- - - - - - - -
So, put whomever you want in for he, it's not really newsies related but oh well. I kinda wrote from the viewpoint of Skittery cuz he looks most Czech I think. The song is the Czech national anthem. One Act does weird things to my muses. So does a late night.
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