A Cobbler's Tale Read online

  “Leo wants to make peace?” The Monk had smiled. “It’s about time. Sure, set it up.”

  This is way too easy, Jakob thought. He sat quietly at the kitchen table to remove his shoes. Pincus, who had probably been asleep for hours, was snoring loudly on a mattress lying on the floor in the corner.

  Jakob rose from the chair and walked up to the single window to look out upon Ludlow Street. The Monk had also agreed that the meeting be held in a neutral location. Without thinking it through, Jakob had proposed the cobbler shop.

  If Gorpatsch would agree, the meeting would be set for tomorrow at midnight. It looked like all of the obstacles had been removed. Then a loud snore from Pincus reminded him that he couldn’t be here. How can I make Pincus disappear for the evening?

  Jakob awoke to an empty apartment. Pincus usually left early on Shabbat morning to attend services at the synagogue. Jakob had three items on the agenda for the day.

  The first was to inform Gorpatsch of the meeting he had set up with the Monk at midnight.

  The second was to get Pincus out of the apartment. He planned to have him picked up in a motorcar and brought to the Asser Levy Public Bathhouse. Then he’d be taken to the Player’s Club, where he would enjoy an evening of cigars and Vishniak. Jakob would also arrange for Pincus to have a room at the club with a real bed and private toilet for the night.

  The third item on the agenda was to pay a visit to Captain Becker and inform him about the meeting between the two of the city’s most notorious crime bosses.

  CHAPTER 33

  SHMUEL RETURNS

  He took a window seat looking out onto the platform and waved goodbye to Mr. Chmura with his good hand. This is how he would refer to his hands from now on, he thought: his good hand and his bad hand. The bad hand, wrapped in gauze, had many broken bones. The doctor had done what he could.

  “I’m sorry to say that the fingers on your left hand, except for your thumb, will never function properly again. But you will adapt to your handicap,” the doctor had told him.

  As the train pulled away from the station, he thought about what Mr. Chmura had told him the night before in his office.

  “The journalist wrote some provocative articles criticizing several government officials by name. Usually they are tolerant with general anti-government comments. But naming names crossed a line,” Mr. Chmura said, pausing to take a puff on his cigar. “What I learned is that two men were sent from Warsaw to murder Yitzhak Cohen.”

  “What do you mean, sent?” asked Shmuel.

  “These men are part of a gang in Warsaw run by a man named Leo Gorpatsch. Gorpatsch is involved in many illegal activities, one of which is murder for hire.” “Someone paid these men to kill?” Shmuel asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “What can we do then? We need to stop these men from hurting Moshe and Max,” Shmuel said.

  “That may be a problem. If we kill them, more will come. Leo Gorpatsch is not a man who would let such an act go without retribution.”

  “What do we do, Mr. Chmura?”

  “I thought about this. I can arrange passage for the boys to go to America. You told me that Moshe’s father is already there,” he said.

  “Yes, he has opened a cobbler shop in the Lower East Side.”

  “I have heard that Gorpatsch has expanded his business to New York, but with over half a million Jews now living in Manhattan, there will be little chance for them to cross paths.”

  “Aren’t they too young to travel alone?” Shmuel asked. “Clara would never allow Moshe to go unaccompanied.”

  “I thought so too. That’s why you will take the boys.”

  “Me, go to America?” he said with a grin.

  “Yes, you can be reunited with your father and brothers.”

  Shmuel shook his head as he thought about it.

  “You’re a good boy, Shmuel, and you’ve sacrificed enough,” Mr. Chmura said, pointing to his mangled hand.

  The train pulled into the station at ten. Shmuel moved with care through the car and onto the platform. He had learned that the slightest bump of his hand, even against soft surfaces, would hurt. But he wanted to tell Clara the news right away.

  Approaching the house, Shmuel noticed it was well lit. At this hour, Clara would have only a single lamp burning. He walked up to a window and took a peek.

  Quickly he darted out of view. Clara, her mother, and the children sat closely huddled looking warily at two men. He stealthily took another look. His eyes did not deceive him. These men must be the killers looking for the boys. The women had their arms wrapped around the terrified children.

  Shmuel held his breath to listen.

  “Tell us where the boys are, and no harm will come to you,” said the larger one, who wore a long black coat.

  “They are not here. I’ve sent them away,” Clara said.

  “Is that so?” said the other man, who bounced nervously. “That’s fine, we’ll kill these little ones then,” he threatened, pointing at the children.

  The children shrieked and huddled closer.

  Shmuel moved his hand down to the knife the rabbi had given him. He unsheathed it, gripped it with his good right hand, blade facing down. Then he moved to the front door, hesitated for a moment, and shoved it open. The killers turned in surprise. Shmuel charged in, lifting the blade high above his shoulder and driving it deep into the neck of the taller man.

  Blood gushed from the wound as he fell to the ground. The children screamed. The other man jumped at Shmuel, knocking him off his feet. He lost his grip on the knife as he tried to use his good hand to break the fall.

  “You little shit!” yelled the man as he jumped on Shmuel and punched him over and over in the face. Shmuel lay defenseless on his back in a pool of the dead man’s blood. He closed his eyes, resigned to taking a beating. Then it stopped. The man fell off him. When he opened his eyes, he saw Clara standing above him holding his bloody knife.

  “Shmuel, are you alright?” she asked.

  “I’m okay,” he said and let out a gut-wrenching groan as he stood up gingerly, touching his bruised and swelling face. At his feet lay the dead men, drenched in a pool of their intermingled blood. The children and grandmother looked at Shmuel and Clara in utter horror.

  “Clara!” her mother shrieked, pointing at the doorway.

  All eyes turned to the open doorway where Moshe and Max stood gawking. “Mama?” Moshe asked. “What happened?”

  Moshe looked sick.

  “Moshe, you don’t look well,” Clara said.

  “I got sick right before the men came. But I’m feeling better now,” he said, looking at the dead men on their living room floor.

  “Mother, put the children to bed,” Clara said, placing the bloodstained knife on the kitchen table.

  She looked at Shmuel, who stood hunched over and looking bewildered. “Shmuel, boys,” she called out. “Let’s go see Captain Berbecki.”

  CHAPTER 34

  THREE YEAR ANNIVERSARY

  Mendel shook Pincus’s hand and took the seat of honor next to him on the dais. On Pincus’s other side sat Benjamin, an old friend from Krzywcza who had arrived a few months ago. He had provided Mendel a great deal of help with the growing responsibilities of administrating the Landsman Society.

  While the assembly mingled and chatted among themselves, Benjamin leaned behind Pincus to address Mendel. “How’s your eldest boy?”

  “Very well, according to the letter Pincus just received from Clara. He’s running his cobbler shop.”

  “Why didn’t he come to America with you and the boys?”

  “When his mother died, Shmuel was heartbroken,” Mendel said. “He refused to come with his brothers and me to America. So, I left him there. He’s a sensitive boy. Maybe he will toughen up being on his own. I’m praying when Pincus goes back to collect his family, he will convince Shmuel to come.”

  “I hope so too,” Benjamin said.

  “Simmer down, gentlemen. I’m a
bout to start,” announced Pincus.

  Pincus approached the dais, took off his glasses, pulled a cloth from his pocket, and polished the lenses, a familiar ritual that signified he was about to speak.

  “Good evening, my friends,” he began, looking out onto a packed house with over two hundred men from his village—and not a stranger among us, he thought proudly.

  “I am happy to see such a large turnout.”

  “Tonight marks our three-year anniversary.” He paused to allow for applause.

  “To date, the Landsman Society of Krzywcza has received a hundred and forty-three families. This includes over a thousand men, women, and children.” More applause.

  “We have offered assistance to many of you,” he said, making a sweeping gesture with his right arm. “This includes finding jobs and housing. Our sick fund has provided support for those in dire need. I am especially proud of our exclusive section in the Beth David Cemetery where we have laid our beloveds to eternal rest.”

  Pincus and Mendel stepped down from the dais together and walked into the crowd, mingling and chatting after the evening’s presentation.

  “Good evening, Mendel, Pincus,” said Saul Bloch extending his hand.

  “Good evening, Saul. How are you?” Mendel said, shaking the hand of his childhood friend.

  “Hello, Saul,” said Pincus with less enthusiasm.

  “We’re managing,” Saul said. “It hasn’t been easy finding work. I’ve been teaching at the shul a few days a week. But you know how it is in America for men with our skills. You have done well, I see.”

  “The Society takes a lot of work. I don’t know what I would have done without it,” Mendel said.

  “I’m happy for you both,” Saul remarked.

  “Thank you,” Pincus said. “I know how tough it can be for intellectuals who hope to find meaningful work here.”

  “I appreciate that,” Saul replied.

  “Maybe we can help you find a position more suitable for your skills,” Pincus said, looking at Mendel, who nodded his approval.

  CHAPTER 35

  JAKOB MEETS THE COMMISSIONER

  Jakob waited as Captain Becker wrapped up his meeting with Police Commissioner McDougal.

  “Can I get you a coffee?” asked the detective whose desk Jakob was sitting at.

  “No, I’m good. Thank you. Can you tell me why the commissioner is here? Does it have anything to do with me?”

  “Sorry, buddy, I wish I knew,” said the detective, dropping his cigarette butt into a nearly empty coffee cup.

  Just then the captain’s door opened, and he asked Jakob to come in.

  Jakob stood, smiled, nodded to the detective, and entered the captain’s office.

  “Jakob, this is Police Commissioner McDougal.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” he said, shaking hands with the commissioner.

  The commissioner exhaled a long puff of cigar smoke, creating a silver cloud around his large head.

  “So, you’re the guy who set up the meeting with Gorpatsch and the Monk?” he asked.

  Jakob nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I understand that you set this meeting up at the cobbler shop where you work.”

  “I did. Is that okay?”

  “The captain and I were just discussing it. Is there a place in the shop for two men to conceal themselves while the meeting takes place?”

  Jakob thought for a moment before answering. “Under the counter, there’s room to hide from anyone who comes in the front door.”

  “Perfect,” the commissioner said.

  Captain Becker stepped around his desk and spoke to Jakob. “Wait outside for me. I’ll be back as soon as I address the men.”

  Jakob sat alone in the room filled with desks and empty chairs while the captain briefed his officers. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all, he thought. Things could easily go wrong.

  Just as he was considering changing his mind, the captain returned. Following closely behind was a man wearing a blue suit and red tie. He had premature gray hair, which gave him a more dignified appearance than the captain, who always seemed to look as if he had just woken up from a nap.

  The captain flicked his finger, indicating Jakob should follow him into his office.

  “Jakob, this is District Attorney Whitman.”

  “Hello, sir,” Jakob said as they shook hands.

  “In order to prosecute Gorpatsch, we need to have a witness to the incriminating conversation. So the DA and I will take up positions under the service counter during the sting operation,” the captain said.

  “You want to be in the cobbler shop during the meeting?” Jakob was surprised.

  “This is how police work is done. Go now and prepare yourself. We’ll meet up with you later.”

  As he walked home from the police station, Jakob thought about turning back and telling the captain that he’d changed his mind. But he realized that perhaps things had gone too far. If he backed out now, he would have not only Gorpatsch’s wrath to deal with, but that of the Monk, the captain, the DA, and the commissioner as well.

  When evening finally came, Captain Becker and District Attorney Whitman met Jakob a few blocks away from 97 Ludlow at thirty minutes before midnight.

  “Is Pincus out for the evening?” asked Becker.

  “He won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  The three men walked down the dark empty alleyway and entered the shop through the back door.

  “This way,” Jakob whispered. He directed the men through Pincus’s workroom to the customers’ part of the shop. “You can hide here,” he said, pointing to the small space under the counter. “We’ll enter through the front so you won’t be seen.”

  The D.A. took off his jacket and folded it carefully. He bent down to look in the cramped space that Jakob had cleared out earlier that day. “Both of us in here?”

  “We’ll be okay, Whitman.” Becker smiled. “You better hurry, Jakob. You’re meeting them in a few minutes.”

  Jakob nodded and left through the back door.

  CHAPTER 36

  THE MEETING

  Jakob leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, watching the coroner place the third corpse into the wagon. It had taken hours for the police to complete the crime scene investigation. The sun would rise soon, and Pincus would be coming home. How would he explain the blood and the pieces of skull and brains now splattered across the walls and floor of the cobbler shop?

  Everything had happened so fast. Gorpatsch and the Monk seemed to be having a productive conversation. It looked like they had agreed to a mutually beneficial arrangement of merging their organizations. Just as they were about to shake on the deal, a miniature pistol suddenly appeared in Gorpatsch’s right hand, and he shot the Monk in his forehead. The bullet went right through his skull, leaving a gaping hole in the back of his head.

  Outside the front door where each man’s second was waiting, Jakob heard another gunshot. The mustached man had killed the Monk’s man. Then, rising from behind the counter, Becker and Whitman appeared. Without surprise or hesitation, Gorpatsch put a bullet though the District Attorney’s right eye.

  Jakob had stood there gaping at Gorpatsch. “What are you doing?”

  Gorpatsch slid the small revolver back into his jacket pocket. He stepped over the corpse of the Monk, walked around the counter, and regarded the crumpled body of the former DA.

  Jakob continued to gape. Gorpatsch merely patted his cheek in a fatherly way. He tipped the brim of his hat to the captain and slipped out through the back door.

  Jakob looked at the captain, puzzled. “Aren’t you going to stop him, arrest him?”

  The captain shook his head. “Well done, Jakob. You did exactly what we wanted.”

  “We wanted? What does that mean?”

  “You think Leo Gorpatsch would walk into a police ambush?”

  Jakob looked at the captain for a while before saying, “You work for Gorpatsch?”

  �
��Don’t we all, Jakob?”

  CHAPTER 37

  WAR

  “It’s been nearly four years. Get it through your head, Clara—he’s not coming back!” her mother squawked from her usual perch at the kitchen table, as she peeled potatoes.

  “I refuse to believe that. His last letter promised me he would come before year’s end,” she insisted as she put on her shoes.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to see Shmuel. The same thing I do every Wednesday morning, Mother,” she answered.

  “If he was coming back, he would have done so already,” her mother insisted.

  What if Mother’s right, she lamented? Why would Pincus pick up and leave America? He would need to be gone at least a month.

  “I’m sure he loves his work as chairman of the Landsman Society. Finally he has reached a level of respect from his peers that he could never have achieved here,” she admitted with one hand on the doorknob.

  “That’s right and that’s why he’s never coming back.”

  “There’s no way he would abandon us,” she insisted and walked out the front door.

  When he left, I was pregnant with Anna, who will have her fourth birthday in a few weeks, and he’s never laid eyes on her. Meanwhile, Jennie has blossomed from a shy little girl into a vibrant young lady of fifteen. Hymie, only two years old when Pincus left, has no memory of his father except what we tell him. Then there’s Moshe. When Pincus emigrated to America, Moshe had just turned eight. In the past four years he has grown up without a father and along the way has had some harrowing experiences. Maybe next year we can all celebrate his bar mitzvah together in America. . . .

  She stopped a few feet from the cobbler shop. The CLOSED sign hung in the window permanently now. Since Shmuel had lost the use of his left hand, he couldn’t do the work anymore, and she couldn’t find a replacement. So she had decided to close the shop for good. Pincus had been sending money regularly, which provided for the family, but that didn’t have the same honor as a long-standing family business. On the day Clara had cleaned out the shop, she’d taken one last look around. Her eyes had blurred with tears as she took in the details of this space that was so familiar to her, and on which so many families had relied for the fifty-plus years that Pincus and his father before him had operated the business. But where are they now? While Pincus has been in America all this time, I’m the one who’s borne the burden of overseeing the shop for him. And now that Shmuel’s gotten himself hurt, what choice do I have? She’d nodded firmly to herself, as if to approve her own decision, and then she had shut the doors on the past for the last time.