Moon and the Mars by Kia Corthron

Moon and the Mars by Kia Corthron

Author:Kia Corthron [Corthron Kia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: NYC, literary fiction, historical fiction, fiction, novels, fiction books, african american books, african american history, realistic fiction books, african american, african american fiction, literature, african american novels, books fiction, african american literature, race, classic, 19th century, american literature, short stories, essays, historical, american history, literary, civil rights, us history, social justice, americana, civil war, feminism, classic books, anthology, drama, school, race relations, feminist, crime
ISBN: 9781644211045
Publisher: Seven Stories Press
Published: 2020-07-05T18:00:00+00:00


A couple days later, I stroll up to Little Germany looking for Friedrich. There he is! sitting on the edge of the wooden sidewalk.

How do ye, Friedrich!

How do ye, Theo, he says quiet.

Your brother gone away to the war?

He nods. I sit with him, both of us silent a time.

What’re you doin here?

I dunno, I answer, pickin at the dirt under my fingernails. Ciaran told me I ought to remove up to Kleindeutschland where all my friends are.

Friedrich chuckles.

He said the war’s not about freeing the slaves. He said the Germans are wrong.

I’m sure he did.

He said the Confederate general Lee thinks slavery’s evil.

And yet Lee owns slaves. Ciaran mention that?

I shake my head. We’re quiet.

You’ve just been sitting here all day?

Since callin the mornin papers. Till I have to call the afternoon papers.

Down the street beyond Friedrich, some Kleindeutschland urchins start playing with a mangy dog.

Don’t be a hero, Friedrich says soft. The last thing my mother said to him. Friedrich wipes away a tear. Then we saw him in the German parade. Then he’s gone.

You don’t want him to be a soldier and free the slaves anymore?

I liked when he was going to be a soldier, just. Felt different after he’d gone to be a soldier. Gone, gone.

The dog makes a low growl, and the kids scatter away, screaming and laughing.

He’s only sixteen. They’ll probably just let him be bugle boy.

They think he’s eighteen. And only the little boys get to be bugle boy. And bugle boy’s in the line of fire much as the rest.

But your mother said don’t be a hero.

She meant no extra risks, don’t volunteer for danger.

We’re quiet a while, then Friedrich frowns. Then Friedrich says, Who said anything about bugle boy anyway?

I stare at him.

What else did Ciaran say?

The conversation suddenly jumped to some place I didn’t steer it. And all at once the tears in Friedrich’s eyes seem dried up by some internal fire.

Storming up Broadway, me panting to keep up with him. Dozens and dozens of blocks, Friedrich spittin mad, I don’t know what’ll happen next but I hope Friedrich sets Ciaran straight about the war without too much bloodshed!

Extra! Seventh Regiment arrives in Washington City, bedded down in the House of Representatives!

Seventy uprising Russian peasants killed by rich landowner!

We fly into the southwest entrance of the Central Park at Fifty-ninth, where Friedrich finally slows. Looking around. People strolling, chattering, ladies with parasols even though it’s not yet summer, just a gentle late-April sun, and the kids in the playground in their fancy clothes screaming and hollering, nobody working, nobody a care in the world. Friedrich’s mouth awe-wide, like Ciaran’s cousin Aedan the day he walked through Grammy Cahill’s door.

You’ve never seen the Central Park before, Friedrich?

But he’s frozen from the shock of it all: everybody delighted, everybody easy.

This is called the Parade. The Parade’s a meadow, and there’s sheep. See, Friedrich? and his face follows where I’m pointing. Not dirty sheep like the pigs sometimes in Five Points. Clean! Spotless white! Fluffy.



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