Portraits (17 page)

November came and with it a bitter cold that even penetrated their warm little apartment. Sara was bundled in Jacob’s heavy flannel robe when she heard the door open. Awkwardly, she managed to get out of bed and trudge into the kitchen to greet him. He took off his coat and hung it in the tiny closet. She reached up and kissed him, then saw the expression on his face.

“Jacob?” Sara asked.

He didn’t answer.

“Jacob, you’re tired. Come, sit down, I’ll get supper.”

He stood holding onto the edge of the sink.

“Did you have a hard day?”

“Hard? They let me go. I’m out of work—”

She sat down heavily before she asked, “Why?”

“Why? Because my boss has a nephew who came from some damn place and he was given my job.”

“But you’ve been working there so long.”

“So what does that mean? Blood is thicker than water. He didn’t even give me a day’s notice.”

“Couldn’t you have taken a job for a little less pay in the meanwhile?”

“Don’t you think I asked? My boss said very apologetically that, no, business wasn’t good enough to put on an extra man. You know what he had the
chutzpah
to do? Give me a written recommendation. I told him he could wipe his rear with it. In a sweatshop I don’t need a recommendation.”

Oh God, their beautiful home. “You’ll find another job…”

“For what kind of money?”

“So it will be a little less.”

“Much less…we can’t live here, Sara.”

She wasn’t listening. This apartment was their first home,
her
first home. Jacob felt much the same, but there was more bitterness as he recalled how he had lost his grandparents’ home, how he had struggled for so long when nobody gave a damn. His experience of injustice had not hardened him to it. On the contrary…

“Jacob, please don’t be hasty. Let’s stay here and see if—

The answer was a flat no…

He found a two-room flat on Rivington Street for nine dollars a month. Sure, the flat on the Heights was beautiful, and he could afford it when he was earning a large salary. But now it was a luxury and he could no longer indulge Sara. He only had three hundred dollars between his family and starvation. No one knew the misery he felt when he helped Sara up the three flights of stairs. His pride had been so shredded he could hardly meet her eyes.

The kitchen was gray, food stains and grease clung to the walls. The bedroom was small and faced an alley. Their furnishings looked ludicrous in these surroundings, especially the satin comforter and the lace-trimmed pillow slips. The toilet was at the far end of a narrow hall. A building like this should only burn to the ground, Jacob thought. The millionaires uptown were getting rich on the misery of people like him.

On November 30, 1910, Sara gave birth to a blonde blue-eyed baby girl after eighteen hours of excruciating pain that made her swear she’d never have another.

Jacob had never doubted that a man of his virility could have anything but a boy. Even Hershel could make sons. But when he held the little girl in his arms, any such feelings vanished—she was
his
, and his love was greater than anything he’d known. Much to Sara’s irritation, the baby was named Rachel after Jacob’s grandmother. She argued with Jacob that the child should be called Denise, but his objections had overruled hers. When she looked at the child at her breast, she felt almost envious of the affection that Jacob showed the child. Even at the height of his passion he never gave her the tenderness he gave to his child. Sara felt left out, rejected. She had endured the long pregnancy and the labor pains because of Jacob, but now he seemed lost to her in the pleasure of fatherhood…

In the weeks to come, Jacob spent every weekday looking for a job. One late afternoon he came home to find Sara, in the usual heavy sweater, standing at the sink as she prepared their dinner. She glanced up. “So how did it go…you found a job?”

“I found a job.”

“Mazel tov.
Where?”

“At a factory, making umbrella handles.” Mr. Mendlebaum’s presence was vivid in Jacob’s memory.

“I guess you’re pleased…since it used to be your trade. How much does it pay?”

“Nine dollars a week.”

“You like the job?”

“Like it? It’s a job…what do we have for supper?”

“Meatballs. Where is the job…I mean is it—”

“Uptown.”

Where they once lived.

They went their separate ways, she to the stove, Jacob to see the baby…

The next two years passed slowly for Sara and Jacob, but if they hardly noticed the passage of time it was not because life had improved. Sara’s unhappiness resulted in arguments, then utter silence. Jacob became sullen and withdrawn. His hopes, dreams diminished, as did Sara’s. Both felt their situations would never improve, and somehow they blamed each other.

Sara even began to punish Jacob—she would not have recognized it as that—by depriving him of herself. At night, she turned her back to him and stared at the wall. And he reached out more, and more, to his child for solace.

H
ERSHEL AND GITTEL’S LIFE
had, surprisingly, prospered. Hershel now had a fine job working for a pawnshop on Ludlow Street. Each day he set off with a small case filled with diamond-studded earrings, wedding rings and gold watches, and he proved to be quite effective at selling.

Gittel gave birth to another son and they moved to a three-room flat. Gittel was more than content. Hershel was making a steady living. In fact, they had even saved a little money. These were the best years Gittel had ever known.

Esther was both happy and unhappy. She was pleased for Gittel, but she wept for Jacob and Sara. She well knew her son’s fierce pride and Sara’s needs. If business were better she would have given them some money. Added to her concern, Shlomo quit school in his junior year and went to work at the Fulton Fish Market. Esther tried to convince him to finish school, but he said he felt obliged to help support the family.

Jacob was furious that Shlomo would insult him by offering his help. But when he bought things for Rachel, whom they both adored, Jacob looked the other way.

It was an unexpected opportunity that fell into Hershel’s lap. And once again coincident with someone else’s disaster.

One morning he walked into Abrams’ Pawnshop to replenish his case, and found his boss slumped over the counter. The man’s eyes were open, but Hershel knew from the way his head lay that Mr. Abrams was dead. He felt the pulse to be sure…but no beat. As Hershel stood looking at the dead man his thoughts were all on the living…Mr. Abrams had no family, no one at all. So who would fall heir to the fruits of his labor? The government, but Uncle Sam could hardly be called a relative.

Hershel went to the front of the store, locked the door and pulled down the shade. Then he began stuffing his pockets and his case with rings, earrings, watches, brooches—whatever he could put his hands on. He opened the metal strongbox, took whatever cash was there and laid it on top of the jewelry in his case. Nervously, he locked the case and hurried home.

In spite of the cold day, he was drenched in perspiration when he reached his flat.

Gittel was so busy with the children that she didn’t hear him walk in. He hurried into the bedroom, where he could be alone. He had too many pressing questions to answer. What should he do with the loot? Where could he hide it? Would the police suspect him? Question him? Hershel admonished himself…why was he so upset about all this? Who knew how much merchandise Abrams had? He didn’t even know, and he’d worked for Abrams. Abrams didn’t keep any inventories and Hershel was positive that he had taken only jewelry that was years overdue. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty, but done was done. Now, where should he hide it? In the closet, under the pile of dirty clothes? It wasn’t safe, but for the time being it would have to do. Hershel went into the kitchen and sat down at the kitchen table. Benjamin climbed onto his father’s lap and put his head against Hershel’s chest.

“When are you going to wash the clothes in the closet, Gittel?” he asked.

“When I have the time. To tell the truth, I’ve been so busy I almost forgot but I’ll do it tomorrow. You have enough—”

“No problem…Listen, Gittel, I have something to tell you. Sit down.”

“What’s the matter, Hershel? Here, let me get you a cup of tea.”

“No. Listen, Gittel, I have something very sad to tell you.”

Her heart pounded. Was it mama? “Sad, Hershel? What…”

“Mr. Abrams died. When I went to pick up the jewelry this morning, I found the poor man gone.”

“Oh, my God, he was such a nice person. Poor man, there’s no one to even say
Kaddish
for him. Too bad when you have no sons. How lucky we are—”

Her words reminded him of the night Avrum was born, when Jacob had loomed over him on the steps and said, “You have a son. When you die there’ll be someone to say
Kaddish
for you.” But he looked at Gittel and quickly continued, “It’s sad, but he lived a good life. If he didn’t make arrangements, I’ll take care of it. Now, of course, Gittel, I have to get a new job.”

She hadn’t thought of that and suddenly she panicked. “What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry, Gittel, I’ll make a living. Trust me, we won’t starve.”

“Whatever happens, Hershel, it doesn’t matter so long as we’re all together.”

He nodded. “I have to go and take care of Mr. Abrams. God should only rest his soul in peace, such a nice man.” …

After Hershel let himself into the store, he ran out and frantically summoned a policeman.

“My God,” he said, “I can hardly believe it. Yesterday he was fine…”

“Well, that’s life,” said the policeman, “that’s what people die from…living.”

“What’s going to happen now, what should I do?”

“Don’t do nothing…don’t touch anything. You know his family?”

“He has none. I was like a son, though, I loved him.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of tough, but we all got to go.”

“What’s going to happen to the store?”

“I suppose the sheriff will padlock it, but first I have to notify the chief to call the coroner.”

“Mr. Abrams and I never talked about it, but I don’t even know if he took care of—”

“Funeral arrangements, yeah. I been around you people enough to know you have to make certain arrangements. Now give me your address in case we have to get in touch with you.” …

Hershel saw Mr. Abrams buried, then waited out the next few days in fear and anxiety.

The amount of jewelry Mr. Abrams had stashed away boggled the minds of the police who inventoried it. The gold pieces alone were worth a fortune, they told Hershel. He could have killed himself for being so honest, but his reprieve had finally come. He was not interrogated nor under any suspicion. Why should he be? There was certainly no foul play. It was a heart attack.

When Mr. Abrams’ case was closed, Hershel felt it was safe to take his merchandise to a fence and convert it into cash. He was shocked at the amount—fifty-seven hundred dollars, not including the cash he’d taken. He felt like a millionaire.

That evening at dinner he said, “Gittel, I’ve saved a little money. I was always worried about losing my job and the only time you don’t have to worry is when you’re your own boss.”

She sighed. “How true that is.”

“Well, I’m going to be my own boss.”

“You are? Oh, Hershel, I’m so happy, tell me—”

“Calm down, I’ll tell you. I’m going to start a small business and we’re going to move.”

“You mean to a cheaper place until—”

“No, I mean away from New York.”

“Away from New York? Why, Hershel?”

“What kind of business could I start here, another delicatessen? I haven’t got a trade and I can’t—”

“But my family…your family, Hershel. How can we pick up and leave them?”

“I thought about it, of course I did. But our future’s not here.”

Silence. She was afraid to ask, afraid to hear the answer…“Where, then?”

“To Cleveland.”

While she recovered from the shock, Hershel thought about the decision he had made. If he went into business here, people would wonder how he had acquired so much money, and that he couldn’t risk. He still woke up in the night, drenched with perspiration, thinking the police would discover the missing loot…“Listen, Gittel, I’m thinking of the children. This is no place to raise them. They’ll grow up without ever seeing a tree. What chance do we have here? None. I thought of Cleveland because it isn’t too far for your mother to take a train. At least we can live like human beings there.”

Biting her lip, she asked, “What made you think of Cleveland?”

“I know a man who moved there. I happened to meet him the other day when he came to visit his parents, and he said Cleveland was the best decision of his life. It’s a wonderful city and his wife loves it there too.”

Oh God, Gittel thought. She would be having to leave mama, her brothers, Sara and little Rachel…Why was life so complicated? “When will we be going?”

“I’m going first. I can’t have you come till I find a place and a business.”

“When are you going?”

“Tomorrow.”

Gittel sat with Esther in the restaurant as the children played at a nearby table. “I’m not complaining, mama, but I can’t get over Hershel moving us to Cleveland. Don’t you think there’s something he could have done to get into a little business here, mama?”

“He could have, yes, but in my heart I know Hershel is right. I don’t think there’s a worse place than this. When I came from the old country I hated it. For the bums, the East Side is good…but I hated having to bring up Shlomo here. That he turned out so good is only by the grace of God—”

“There are good children and families here, too, mama.”

“True, but they’d be better off somewhere else. Listen to me, Gittel, this one time I give Hershel a lot of credit. His concern about his wife and family is wonderful. He’s turned out to be a good husband, Gittel—a very good man. Go with an easy heart, Hershel is right.”

“I know, but I still love you, my family, and to think you won’t see the children breaks my heart.”