Heat
by Bernard Greenwald

When I was about ten years old my mother, sister and I lived in a second floor apartment heated by a coal furnace, in Newark, N.J. At that time many people were converting from coal heat to cleaner, more convenient oil heat, but our landlord was apparently not interested in such an investment and most homes in our neighborhood were still heated with coal. The ancient furnace or boiler was a huge, vertically cylindrical affair, with a concrete and asbestos carapace. Each of the three apartments in the building had its own--with two doors, one at waist height for stoking the coal and another at floor level for removing ashes. I remember clearly the sound of the coal scoop scraping against the concrete floor to clear out the ashes, a procedure like spooning stuffing out of a turkey. There were also some Captain Video glass-faced pressure gauges no one seemed to care about.

My mother was a stenographer at the Lindeman Coal and Oil Company and was careful to budget her modest salary all year to pay for several tons of coal needed for heat in the winter. She earned then weekly about what it costs to fill my automobile's gas tank now. Each fall the Lindeman truck would arrive and park in front of our house. It was often possible to run a chute from the truck through a cellar window so the coal could simply be poured into the coal bin. But our house was above street level, so the powerful black men who delivered the coal would have to pour it into great, wire-framed canvas baskets on their backs, and hump it up 10 or 12 concrete steps, then walk down the alley 30 or 40 feet to the cellar window. There they would tip the coal into the rusty metal chute. This was accompanied by a great roar of clattering coal and a cloud of black smoke as it slid into the bin ten feet below. The deliverymen were co-workers of my mother's at Lindeman's and she knew them well. But no one could sustain for long such literally backbreaking work as delivering coal indefinitely and their delivery careers were often short lived.

The same alleyway usually held many wire handled 5-gallon metal cans filled with coal ashes waiting to be hauled away. It was my job to carry them to the curb, two at once. The metallic clatter of garbage collectors often woke me in the early morning. These ashes were also sprinkled on icy walks and streets for traction. My black, rubber overshoes always had a grey patina from them and I was not permitted to enter our apartment wearing them. It was a common sight to see innumerable cans of ashes lined up in front of each house. Within hours of whenever it snowed, the white stuff would turn an ashen grey.

The damper controlled the amount of air admitted to the furnace and was adjusted with a lever. Open, it admitted more oxygen and the fire grew hotter. This was how you controlled the temperature in your apartment. When it was really frigid and the damper was wide open, the ornate iron radiators upstairs emitted loud clanking and clicks as their valves were assaulted by steam pressure. As our windows fogged over, steam would hiss from the valves. The condensation had to be captured, usually by an old cooking pot, to protect the floor and rug. The hissing steam, the clanging radiators and the fogged windows gave me a great feeling of security whenever I returned from the cold outdoors. I loved to draw with my forefinger on the fogged windows. These pentimenti were discouraged, since they were often still visible after the fog had disappeared.

Keeping the fire going was a source of anxiety for my mother. It was disheartening to return from an extended absence to a cold apartment and have to go through the rigmarole of building a new fire and then wait in your coat for the radiators to get hot. Building fires meant a trip to the cellar, where one would have to shake out all the cold ashes from the grate to produce a clear draft, then lay in crumpled newspapers, kindling salvaged from wooden fruit boxes at Dentsman's the greengrocer's, and finally larger pieces of wood. Once this was burning, the coal (including incompletely burned pieces culled from the ashes), could be stealthily added so as not to smother the flames. My grandfather, who lived next door and had survived many Russian winters, was often called in for such delicate work.

Before the family retired for the night it was necessary to bank the fire, which meant causing it to smolder slowly without going out. To accomplish this one had to cover the bluish flames with a large scoop of coal and turn down the damper. While I could not admit it, I had a terrible fear of the cellar at night. As the only male member of the household, I considered it my responsibility to help with manly tasks. If I could not convincingly feign sleep, passionate involvement in a radio program or homework, I would be dispatched to the basement to bank the stove.

It was two flights to the cellar. The light, a single 40-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling, illuminated only our families' area, leaving the rest of the cellar dark, sinister, and unknown. I had little trouble with the damper, but when I scooped a shovelful of coal from the floor of our bin, coal from the top and back would be dislodged, sending individual pieces rolling towards me in the fearsome chiaroscuro. The noise was very frightening. Who knew what monstrosities, human or supernatural, waited for me back in that darkness? I would jam the coal into the furnace, slam shut the door and flee to safety.

Today, of course, if my house is cold, I simply turn up the thermostat. It's much easier. But given contemporary political and economic circumstances, is it?