The sins of the fathers

Title

Creator

Renick

Language

English

Year

1951

Rights

In Copyright - Educational Use Permitted

Fulltext

A short-short story T)ke Sini of the 9atkeri By RENICK Toke down thot crucifix/ This is a hospital, by gum, not a church! I'm poying here for my wife's hospitalization—do you understand? She doesn't need thot—thot—superstitious bric-brac. Toke it down! Take it down, I soy/ What's that? It won't do her ony harm? Won't affect her delivery? Drat it/ Who asked for your opinion? I don't give a hoot for your meoly-mouthing. Do you hear me? Take thot crucifix down/ Listen. I don't want—ony child of mine—ever —to look upon—the image of—a crucified Jew/ ...to heck with these religious/ They'll put one over on you if you don't watch out. All this tripe about religion is just a lot of bunk! Fetish. Voodooism. Black magic. That's what it is. But they can't fool me. No. Sir! Ole mon Harrison is too smart for 'em. Ho/ ho/ the face of that nun when she heard me soy I never want ony child of mine ever to look upon the image of a crucified Jew/ Like a we rag, by gum/ A very wet dish-rg' It's worthithe trouble of getting rj just to see one of 'em jump out of skin. Golly, that was funny. The image of a crucified Jew? Weil, that's what it is. Thot man's been dead and buried these two thousand years. No man in his right senses would worship a corpse. Much less a corpse that has rotted for twenty centuries. These fool Catholics/ Scraping and bowing and all that sort of stuff. Well, just goes to show you there are fools bom every minute. . . Oh, here comes the doctor. Well, doc, how was the delivery? Any hitch? Okay, did you say? Fine work. I knew I could count on you. How's Mary. All right? Fine, Fine. What Js it? A boy? Gee, that's swell. Marvelous. Six pounds and ten ounces, eh? Ho/ ho/ Takes after his 52 APRIL, 1951 53 dad, I'll say. Boy, I feel like celebrating. Here, doc, have a cigar. . . So-a-y, Sister, —nun—or whatever you're called—what are you looking at me like that for? Still mad at me? C'mon. Be a sport. Let bygones. 1 can't be mad at anybody today. I'm a father/ What do you say we shake hands, eh? Forgive and forget—that's what I always. . . Listen, doc, give her a chance to say something, will you? Maybe, she hos something to say. Doc/ What are you stopping her for. . . . Hey/ Is anything wrong? Gosh, Doc; nothing is wrong, is there? You told me the operation was .a success. Mary's all right—or is she? Nothing is wrong— tell me nothing went wrong—:Doc/ Don't stand there like a statue/ Whot does she mean by staring at me like thot? What wos thot, Sister? No. No/. No/ Gosh, Sister—you can't mean it! You can't! Don't tell me—my— son—wos born—blind! to gtal in By VICENTE ROMERO In the year of Grace, At the Philippines. To the Premier of Russia, Ruler and Supreme Master of those Nations that have been betrayed into his hands, Persecutor of good and Promoter of evil, At Moscow in the Land of Slavery; My dear Stalin, Can you sleep at night, Comrade Stalin? I should think every shadow would make you start witlu fear. The moonlight playing in the corners must remind you of the moonlight on the tombstones of those you have killed. And yet so few of them are buried beneath tombstones! Those open graves and those mass executions — do they not come back to haunt you at night, Comrade Stalin? Can you forget the faces-of those you have forced to work on your railroads and your bridges, and driven to their death? Do you think that you can run away from them forever? Can you forget Poland, Comrade Stalin, or Hungary? Do you find yourself unable to eat when you think of Estonia, Lithuania and

Media