A Cobbler's Tale Page 25

  “This is Mr. Marcus. He will help you, Moshe.”

  Moshe looked up at the man who stood over him. His angular face and bony limbs gave him the appearance of a giant insect transformed into a man. Mr. Marcus stooped down, scooped Moshe up in his arms, and carried him like a small child to the front door and out into the awaiting car parked in the street.

  Moshe glanced over and saw Dora pick up her boots, place them into her bag, follow them out of the shop, and shut the front door. Mr. Marcus started the engine and pulled out into the traffic on the Grand Concourse. Dora leaned up against Moshe and forced his mouth open. “Drink this, Moshe, it will make you feel better.”

  Moshe tried to resist, but he was too sick and allowed the fluid to enter his mouth. Moments later he was asleep.

  CHAPTER 79

  WHERE’S MOSHE?

  The subway ride home from Orchard Beach gave Pincus time to reflect. They’d had a wonderful relaxing vacation on the beach—a full week of sunshine and warm temperatures. His three youngest children had swum in the ocean and run carefree along the sand.

  At last, his life had settled down. His relationship with Clara had improved, and the children were healthy and happy. Now with Moshe running the shop and the society’s purpose winding down with most of the Jewish population of Krzywcza emigrated, he looked forward to his free time.

  When the train pulled into the Fordham Road station, Pincus said, “Let’s surprise Moshe and stop in. He’ll still be there.”

  Pincus, Clara, and the children, each carrying a valise, stepped out of the subway stairwell and into the bustle at the intersection of Fordham and the Grand Concourse. The shop was a few blocks down.

  As they approached the store Clara noticed the sign first. “Why is the CLOSED sign on the door?”

  “Maybe Moshe forgot to turn it around,” Pincus said.

  Pincus turned the unlocked doorknob and entered. The lights were on, and it looked as if Moshe might have stepped out for a moment and forgot to lock the door.

  “He probably went somewhere and will return any minute,” Pincus said. “Why don’t you take the children home? I’ll wait for Moshe.”

  Clara agreed and left.

  Pincus figured that he might as well reopen the shop, so he flipped the sign back around. Moments later, customers came in to either drop off or pick up. A few customers asked about Moshe. He told them that Moshe had stepped out for an errand and would return momentarily. But after an hour had passed and there was no sign of Moshe, Pincus started to worry.

  What could have happened to him? He took a step out onto the sidewalk and looked up and down the busy concourse of pushcarts and pedestrians. He walked back in and that was when he spotted a work ticket lying on the pavement. He picked it up and looked at it. It said:

  DORA MELTZER

  97 ORCHARD STREET

  BLUE SHOES

  REPLACE SOLES—$2

  “Dora Meltzer,” he said aloud. Sounds familiar, he thought. How do I know this name? He stared at the paper for another minute and then it occurred to him.

  “The palm reader from the SS Amerika!” he blurted out. The rabbi warned me that she might be a rasha and would come for Moshe. He turned the sign back around to CLOSED, locked the door, and ran home to tell Clara that he needed to go rescue their son.

  CHAPTER 80

  DORA’S MENTOR

  By the time the motorcar pulled up to the entrance to 97 Orchard Street, Moshe was drugged and sleeping heavily. Dora had rested his head on a pillow so he wouldn’t bang it against the car window. He had responded very quickly to the elixir she’d prepared. Maybe she had made it too potent, and it might take a while for it to wear off. But there was no rush. Moshe would be staying with her for quite a while.

  Mr. Marcus lifted Moshe in his arms and carried him to a bedroom at the top floor of her townhouse. Dora had become very wealthy since arriving in America five years ago. Her reputation as a palm reader brought her many clients, including former presidents, actors, and wealthy businessmen.

  She explained to her clients that there was an art as well as a science in being able to see into someone’s soul through the lines and bumps of a palm. The great rabbis of the past have said that, in order to read palms, one must have knowledge of the mystical origins of people’s souls.

  Dora Meltzer had such knowledge, but had squandered it doing silly and boring readings. She did them to pay the bills. Her true desire was to go beyond her current level and have the power to manipulate the weak-minded to her wishes and desires. She could create great wealth and influence world events. This would certainly be more exciting then telling a forlorn wife that her husband was cheating on her again.

  To do this, she would need to enhance her knowledge with that of the tzaddik. She had learned the dark arts of chiromancy, or palmistry as it is called in America, from a rabbi in Berlin when she was a teenage girl. She thought back to the day she had met him.

  As she stood in line at the bakery waiting her turn, an old man had walked up to her. He stood as tall as she and stared at her a few inches from his face. Her initial reaction was to jerk back, but she didn’t move. She knew this was a clear invasion of her personal space, but she didn’t feel invaded. She felt curious.

  “Your name is Dora?” he asked.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I’ve been looking for you.” he said, without further explanation. “Would you come to my home tomorrow?” He handed her a piece of paper with his name and address:

  RABBI HERZFELD

  AM KROGEL 35

  APARTMENT 6

  “Come tomorrow morning at nine,” he said and turned and walked out of the bakery.

  The next morning Dora found the address and knocked on the apartment door. The old rabbi answered.

  “Come in, Dora. I am happy you came.”

  The apartment smelled of mildew and other vaguely unpleasant odors. Probably the cats, she thought, when she saw a few dart across the floor as she entered. The rabbi sat down in an old, worn-out chair and asked Dora to take the chair across from him.

  “Have you ever heard of chiromancy?” he asked.

  “I have not,” Dora answered.

  “Which hand do you write with?”

  “I write with my right hand,” she said, holding it up.

  The rabbi reached out quickly, grabbed her outstretched hand, and turned it with her palm facing up.

  “Let me look at you,” he said.

  He traced his finger along the lines of her palm.

  “This line here that curves around the meat of your thumb is your life line. This one that crosses straight through is called the head line. This is the heart line and here is what is called the girdle of Venus. This is the sun line, the Mercury line, and the fate line.”

  She followed along, fascinated.

  “Each of these lines has a meaning. But in addition, we look at the shape of your hand. There are shapes that represent earth, air, water and fire. Let me look at yours,” he said, examining her hand by turning it over to study it from various angles.

  “Your hand is of fire.”

  “Fire?” She asked, holding it up to see if it was about to spontaneously burst in flames.

  “The fire sign tells me that you are a person with unlimited energy and ambition. Perhaps a little short-tempered but highly imaginative,” the rabbi said, looking at her for acknowledgement.

  “Yes Rabbi, this is all true.”

  Dora spent the next three years studying the dark arts of chiromancy. She became the rabbi’s best student, learning all he could teach her, and soon it came time for her to move on.

  “I have no more to offer you, Dora. You have mastered all my skills and more. The next step is for you to go beyond being just a reader of souls and becoming a master of them. If you can learn the ways of the empath, the tzaddik, you will find no greater power.”

  The rabbi told Dora about the tzaddikim and their powers.

  “People are dr
awn to them. They have an ability to offer comfort to even the most disturbed. You can only look into a man’s soul, Dora. But the tzaddikim can actually touch it. They are the direct hands of Hashem.”

  “How do I recognize one?”

  “You can tell one by reading his palm. The sign that you have found one is what is called the simian crease. This is the fusing of the heart and head line, a very unusual occurrence.”

  He traced it out on her palm.

  “This combining of these two lines represents a spiritual connection to the almighty. You will see this not only in the tzaddik, but in the parents as well.”

  The rabbi stood up and walked over to a pile of books on his desk.

  “Dora, if you ever find a tzaddik, you must be very cautious. The tzaddikim have the ability to destroy us. We are considered their mortal enemy. They call us the rasha, the dark side. It’s nature’s balance of light and dark.”

  Dora listened intently. She never could have envisioned herself being associated with the dark side—until the allure of chiromancy had seduced her.

  “Here it is,” he said, opening the ancient volume to a particular page.

  “These are the prayers you say if you ever have a tzaddik in your web. Memorize them; you cannot take this book with you. Chant these prayers and you will gain control over your tzaddik, and his powers will become yours.”

  He handed her the book.

  “But do not keep the tzaddik long, or you will become a target for retribution from the other thirty-five. They do not like one of their own being mistreated,” he warned.

  CHAPTER 81

  PINCUS TO THE RESCUE

  The D train from Tremont Avenue to the Grand Street station involved two transfers and took 59 minutes. The three blocks from the station to 97 Orchard Street took Pincus fifty-nine seconds.

  He ran up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. When no answer came immediately, he banged on the door with both fists.

  The door opened and Mr. Marcus greeted him.

  “Good day, Mr. Potasznik. It is nice to see you once again.”

  “You have my son. Step aside and let me enter,” Pincus demanded.

  “I’m afraid that is not possible. Your son Moshe came of his own free will and wishes to remain here until he decides otherwise. Good day, Mr. Potasznik,” Mr. Marcus said, closing the door.

  Pincus stood there staring at the large wooden door and brass knocker. He would apparently need help. He could go to the police, but Captain Becker would probably not be inclined to help, considering Pincus had killed his major source of income, Leo Gorpatsch. The only other option would be to go see Mendel. Perhaps he could think of something.

  The last time he had seen Mendel had been the day they had moved to the Bronx, nearly two years earlier. Mendel wrote occasionally and had told him that since the Landsman Society had officially closed, he would take a position as manager in the housewares department at Macy’s on Herald Square.

  Pincus found Mendel demonstrating the newest vacuum cleaner from Hoover for a young couple.

  “Its all about the revolving brushes. They vibrate the carpet fibers that loosen up the trodden-in grit and dirt,” he said with a forced smile. “It beats as it sweeps as it cleans.”

  Finally he finished, and Pincus approached him. “Mendel, can I talk to you?”

  “What are you doing here?” Mendel asked.

  “Moshe has been taken by some crazy palm reader named Dora Meltzer. She has him locked up in her townhouse on Orchard. I went over there demanding his release and the door was slammed in my face.”

  “That’s a lot to absorb, Pincus. Let’s go find a place to talk privately.”

  CHAPTER 82

  MOSHE’S MORNING

  Moshe awoke the next morning still under the effects of the drug. His eyelids felt like heavy curtains. His blurred vision couldn’t make out any details. He propped himself up on his elbows, but that caused his head to spin. Collapsing back onto the soft mattress, he dozed off again.

  “Master Moshe, please wake up,” came a voice that penetrated Moshe’s sleep. He heard it again, and a hand shook his shoulder. Slowly he awoke and opened his eyes. Staring at him stood the tall Mr. Marcus.

  “Where am I?” Moshe asked.

  “You are a guest in the home of Miss Meltzer. She would like you to wake and join her for breakfast.”

  The last thing he remembered was being forced to drink something. Moshe rubbed his eyes and swung his feet off the bed and sat up. He saw his clothes folded neatly on an ottoman in front of a large upholstered wing chair on the other side of the room. He looked up at Mr. Marcus, whose nod indicated he had removed Moshe’s clothing the previous night and put him to bed.

  Slowly the events of the previous night returned.

  “You drugged me,” he said.

  “It was required,” answered Mr. Marcus.

  “Why am I here?”

  “Miss Meltzer will explain. Now do I need to help you get dressed?”

  “No, I’m getting up,” Moshe said.

  As he washed up in a private bathroom and dressed, Moshe worried about the cobbler shop and his parents. What will they think? How will they find me, when they have no idea where I am? Why do I always wind up in these troubling situations?

  Moshe found the carpeted circular staircase leading downstairs and followed the voices coming from somewhere toward the back of the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, he stepped onto a black-and-white checkerboard pattern of large ceramic tiles. The tiles met a twelve-inch-high, black-painted, wooden baseboard that wrapped around the entire lobby. Two twelve-foot-high doors were also black and had polished chrome hinges and hardware. He took a step toward them when Mr. Marcus appeared.

  “Right this way, Master Moshe. Miss Meltzer is waiting for you in the conservatory.”

  Moshe followed him through the tallest room he had ever seen. The ceiling soared nearly twenty feet. Even Mr. Marcus seemed dwarfed. A pair of windows nearly as tall flanked a fireplace that featured a white marble mantelpiece and hearth. A glass-topped cocktail table with polished chrome trim and legs stood on a black, gray, and white geometric rug between two white sofas upholstered in wool chenille .

  The conservatory was another treat for the eyes. This room was constructed of white wrought-iron framing and crystal-clear glass. The eight walls formed an octagon, and each wall, except for the one attached to the living area, was glass. The geometry continued to the ceiling, which consisted of an array of glass triangles meeting at a peak, where a chain hung down supporting a delicate crystal chandelier.

  As Moshe entered, he could see the back of Dora Meltzer as she sat in a white iron chair whose back resembled a seashell. Mr. Marcus announced Moshe’s arrival. Dora quickly stood up and rushed over to Moshe.

  “I hoped you slept well, Moshe,” she said. “Please come join me.”

  “Why am I being held here against my will? I demand to be let go.”

  “Nonsense. Mr. Marcus, please offer Moshe coffee and orange juice.”

  Moshe sat down without taking his eyes off Dora. Her blond hair and delicate blond curls framed her white smooth skin, round wide-set blue eyes, and pink full lips. She wore an ivory lace throw over a blue silky housecoat that crisscrossed across her breasts, exposing cleavage that Moshe tried not to stare at.

  “I’m not thirsty,” Moshe said, placing a hand over the empty coffee cup as Mr. Marcus attempted to fill it.

  “Nonsense,” Dora insisted. “I’m not going to drug you again. I did it last night for your own good,” she said with a warm smile.

  “Why did you force me to come here?” Moshe asked.

  “Do you not like my home, Moshe?”

  “Your home is beautiful, but why am I here?”

  “You are here because I want you to teach me the ways of the tzaddik.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Moshe snapped back.

  “Please don’t pretend,” she said reaching out a
nd touching his hand. “You will remain with me as long as it takes for me to master the knowledge of a tzaddik, and then you can go home to your hovel in the Bronx.”

  “That’s it—you’re a rasha,” said Moshe, remembering the rabbi’s warning.

  “Let’s not resort to name-calling,” she said with a charming smile.

  “What makes you think you can keep me here?” Moshe demanded.

  “Like you, I have developed some abilities. As a palmist, I can see people’s past and future, and just like you, I know when danger is approaching. So, we are well protected in my little castle,” she said waving her arms to dramatize.

  “What could I possibly teach someone like you?”

  Dora leaned in and said, with widening eyes, “You will show me how you touch people’s souls. How you connect with them. I want to learn how to go deeper.”

  “I don’t know how I do that. It just happens. It’s not me; people feel a certain way when I am with them. It’s not something I can teach.”

  “Well, we will see about that. Now why don’t we get to know each other a little better?” she asked, biting into a succulent red strawberry.

  CHAPTER 83

  THE SEMINARY

  Pincus sat with Mendel and Shmuel waiting for Rabbi Kagen to enter his office. He smiled as he looked around; the space reminded him of Rabbi’s Shapira’s office back home, its cluttered collection of books and papers filling every nook and cranny.

  After Pincus had shared with both Mendel and Shmuel what Rabbi Shapira had told him about Moshe, Shmuel had suggested they speak with Rabbi Kagen, as he was the seminary’s best mind on mystical Judaism. Shmuel advised Pincus to speak slowly and loudly to the rabbi. “He is very old and hard of hearing. He also doesn’t see well,” he advised.