A Cobbler's Tale Read online

  “How may I be of assistance to you this fine day?”

  “My name is Pincus. I’ve just opened a cobbler shop on Ludlow, and I need a sign.”

  “Wonderful! My name is Murray. This is my shop, and I’d be happy to make a beautiful sign for you.”

  After Pincus and Murray agreed on the design and cost of his sign, the conversation shifted to each other’s stories. As a fellow Jew, Murray asked Pincus if his village had established a Landsman Society. He told Pincus how he had joined one as soon as he’d arrived in America.

  “I’m from Plock, a shtetl fifty miles west of Warsaw. The Landsman Society of Plock was established over five years ago,” he said.

  As if he’d just been told he’d won a prize, Pincus explained that his rabbi had instructed him to form the Landsman Society of Krzywcza. But he didn’t know how to begin. “What does your group do?” he asked.

  Murray explained that he was very involved with his society. “Coming to America can be traumatic. There is so much to learn and adjust to. But we agreed that leaving our homeland was what we had to do to protect the future of our children and of our children’s children. Do I not speak the truth?”

  Pincus nodded.

  “Of course, this is true. But we come from fear of what we left behind, and we live in fear of what is yet to come. That’s why we formed the Landsman Society of Plock. We are a support group for families emigrating from our village. When they arrive, we greet them and arrange for housing and a job. We can help them find relatives or friends. In emergencies, we can even provide some money. When people are sick, we call on our committees to visit, and when they die, we bury our loved ones in our own cemetery.”

  Pincus knew that a proper Jewish burial was important for the people of Krzywcza. He remembered as a child going on the first Sunday of each month to the cemetery with his family, which included his grandparents, when they were still alive. His mother and his sister would prepare food to bring with them. It was a family outing to visit the dead. Pincus would hear the same plea each week from his grandfather: “Don’t forget us, Pincus. Make sure you and your brother and sister visit us when it is our time.”

  “Come meet the founders of our society,” Murray offered. “They can guide you on how to start yours. You can be the founder of the Landsman Society of Krzywcza.”

  “Yes, I’d like to meet them,” Pincus agreed with enthusiasm.

  Seated with Jakob at a table near the window of the Katz Delicatessen, Pincus took another large bite of the soft, steamy corned beef sandwich.

  “This is good,” he said, as he pulled a swollen pickle out of a glass jar.

  Jakob smiled but waited until he’d swallowed before he added, “Great place.”

  After washing down his meal with a long drink of seltzer water, Pincus leaned over the small table covered with white craft paper and said, “I need to find my cousin Hersch. He’s living here with his father, my uncle Benjamin. They are carpenters. Hersch can help me start the Landsman Society of Krzywcza. Will you help me locate him?”

  Scratching his stubby, unshaven chin, Jakob suggested, “Let’s ask Manny—that’s a good place to start.”

  “Okay. Let’s go see him in the morning,” Pincus said as he knocked twice with his knuckles on the wooden table. It was a superstition they both believed would bring them good luck.

  The next morning Manny was not in his office.

  “Where is he?” Pincus asked.

  Jakob and Pincus had no luck knocking on doors or asking neighbors. Finally back on the street below, next to the main entrance at 210 Delancey Street, they found a tailor shop. A sign, hanging off a black iron bracket slightly swinging from the gentle breeze, read:

  BERLINER’S TAILORING & CLOTHIER

  MEN’S SUITS $5.00

  “Manny told me he owns the building. Maybe the shop owner knows him and can tell us where he is,” Jakob said as he opened the door, allowing Pincus to enter first.

  “Gentlemen, quick come in, let me show you the latest in sewing technology.” Standing before them was a man waving a long pair of scissors, with a cloth tape measure draped around his neck, and pointing to a sewing machine.

  Pincus turned and shared a puzzled look with Jakob.

  “Good day, are you Max Berliner?” Jakob asked the man.

  “I am—the one and only,” he said.

  “Do you know Manny Plotnick?”

  “Manny, sure I know him. But let me show you my new Singer sixty-six sewing machine. It’s amazing. It can out-sew any machine. I can sew through six layers of fabric, and not just linen or wool, mind you. I can even sew through horse blankets. Imagine that. Let me show you.” He sat down and skillfully pushed some fabric through the foot of the machine, now quickly bobbing up and down.

  “Sir, please, we have no time. Do you know where Manny is?” pleaded Jakob.

  Max stopped the action of the machine, looked up over his glasses and said, “Haven’t you heard? He was arrested this morning.”

  “Arrested? For what,” Pincus asked.

  “There was a fire at the Triangle Shirtwaist Company. They say over a hundred and forty workers burned to death.” He leaned over to whisper. “I hear they lock the doors from the outside until the shift is done. All of them trapped, many teenage Jewish girls. They didn’t stand a chance,” Max finished sadly.

  “What does that have to do with Manny?” Pincus asked.

  “He owns the building. He’s being charged with murder.”

  CHAPTER 14

  CLARA STRUGGLES

  When Clara received the first letter from Pincus, Anna was already two months old. She waited till the children had been put to bed before she sat down to read it.

  Reaching into her apron pocket, she lifted the slightly worn envelope and brushed off the flour that stubbornly clung to it. Her eyes swelled with tears as she ran her fingers across the canceled stamps from America.

  “Finally, a letter!” she said aloud.

  Planning to save the envelope, she delicately sliced it open with a paring knife. She removed a single page of words in his sloppy handwriting.

  October 15, 1910

  Dear Clara,

  After a difficult voyage, I have made it to America. In only a few days of my arrival, I opened the shop and found a place to live above the store. My address is 95 Ludlow Street. The area is known as the Lower East Side. I have never seen so many Jews. Hopefully soon I can launch the Landsman Society of Krzywcza, and we will be able to help our people when they arrive here.

  I hope all went well with the birth. Write to me and tell me if I have a son or a daughter. Are you doing okay? Tell Jennie, Moshe, and Hymie that I miss them. Hopefully your mother is helping you. How is Shmuel doing in the store? I will send money soon.

  Zei gezunt,

  Pincus

  Shaking her head she muttered, “Pincus.” She folded the letter and slid it back in its envelope. Tapping it twice against her left palm, she placed it in between the tin storage cans on the shelf under the window looking out onto the street. With darkness approaching, she could see candlelight flickering in the neighbor’s windows.

  It had taken nearly two months for the letter to arrive, and all she’d learned was that Pincus had made it to America. He may be a man of few words, she thought, but couldn’t he have told me more about his new life or when he will he be able to come back for us?

  She turned as a door closed behind her. Her mother entered and sat down at the table, covered with a coating of flour and holding a nicely shaped round dough that looked ready for the oven.

  “The children are sleeping,” Sadie announced.

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  She sat down at the table across from her mother and said, “I received a letter from Pincus.”

  “What does he say?” Clara told her the good news without revealing her disappointment with its brevity. But Mother was not easily managed, especially when she started complaining about Pincus.

  �
�All is well. Soon he will start sending money from the store. In the meantime, I should go see how Shmuel is getting along. I haven’t visited with him since Anna was born,” she said, skillfully changing the subject.

  The next morning, after she’d cleaned up from breakfast, Clara called out to Moshe, “Are you ready?”

  She had promised Moshe a trip to the village for his tenth birthday.

  “Yes, Mama.” His blue eyes sparkled, and he wore his best outfit that he normally saved for shul visits with Papa.

  She smiled—such a bright and happy boy. Taking his hand, she turned to her mother. “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “Mama, can we go to the bakery?” Moshe asked.

  “Yes, I told you we would, but first we must stop and see how Shmuel is doing. He’s taking care of the shop while your papa is in America.”

  Along the packed dirt road, Clara held tightly to Moshe’s hand. She sensed danger, watching the wagons maneuvering their way into the village square. The horses were jumpy and unpredictable on market day.

  In the center of the village square stood the cobbler’s shop. Clara pointed it out to her son. “There, Moshe, that’s it.”

  He stood on his tiptoes to see through the gathering vendors setting up their pushcarts. As they entered the square, Clara pointed out the fruits and vegetables displayed in colorful arrangements along the way.

  “Here we are,” she said as they entered the front door.

  “Clara, what a pleasant surprise,” said Shmuel as he looked up from his worktable.

  The shop looked busy. Clara saw many pairs of shoes lining the shelves waiting their turn for the cobbler.

  “Good day, Shmuel. Do you know my boy, Moshe? Today is his tenth birthday.”

  “Moshe, what a big boy you are. Happy birthday! I am so happy to meet you.”

  Letting go of her son’s hand, she said, “Stay here. I am going into the back room with Shmuel to talk for a few minutes.”

  “Okay, Mama,” Moshe said with a smile. “Can I just look out the window?” “Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.”

  “Everything looks very good,” Clara said, returning to the front of the shop. “I’ll try to get back to you with some ideas on how to find some new places to buy hides.” As she turned her attention to where she left Moshe, he was gone.

  “Moshe,” she said. “Moshe, are you hiding?”

  Shmuel looked under the counter and behind a crate leaning against the wall. “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?” Clara was frantic.

  “He must have walked outside.”

  “Shmuel, help me find him,” she pleaded.

  Her heart sank as she opened the door. The activity in the square seemed to have multiplied tenfold in the past few minutes. Wagons drawn by horses and mules crisscrossed in every direction. Children ran under and around the pushcarts. Could one of them be Moshe? She ran into the square, but he had disappeared.

  Shmuel insisted they go to the police station for help.

  “They won’t help us, Shmuel.”

  “We have no choice, we must go,” he insisted.

  After a curt reply from the desk sergeant, she resigned herself to the hard wooden bench against the wall in the police station, buried her face in her hands, and cried.

  “Thank you for staying with me.”

  “Of course, Clara. He’ll turn up. You’ll see,” Shmuel offered unconvincingly.

  Abruptly she stood and again approached the sergeant who was busy with paperwork at his desk.

  “Sir,” she interrupted the officer at the desk. “How much longer must I sit here?”

  Without pausing to look up, he said, “For as long as it takes Captain Berbecki to finish his current business.”

  A half-hour later, a door swung open, and Captain Peter Berbecki walked through it. Planted firmly between the edges of his lips protruded the stump of a cigar. Trails of smoke found its way among the knotty wood beams supporting the ceiling.

  “Are you Mrs. Potasznik?” he asked, looking directly at Clara.

  At first she sat there, unable to answer. She had never seen such a strikingly handsome man. What a perfect color his blue suit is, she thought, as the translucency of his clear blue eyes disarmed her.

  “Mrs. Potasznik, can you hear me?”

  “Clara,” Shmuel said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  With that, she snapped herself out of her reverie. “Yes, I am Mrs. Potasznik. I am looking for my son Moshe,” she said, suddenly moved by guilt at allowing herself to be distracted.

  “Moshe is fine, come with me,” he said, and with a sweeping gesture of his long arm, offered an invitation to enter his office.

  Shmuel lifted Clara up from her chair by her elbow and escorted her in.

  “Mama,” Moshe yelled, jumping off the chair and wrapping his arms around her legs.

  “Sit back down,” instructed the captain.

  “Mama?” Moshe looked at her fearfully.

  “It’s okay, Moshe. Listen to the captain. We’ll be going home soon.”

  “Your son has caused a great disruption, Mrs. Potasznik,” the captain said.

  Shmuel helped Clara into a chair that seemed tiny compared to the imposing desk Captain Berbecki stood behind.

  “What did he do? He’s a good boy, never a problem.”

  “Is that so?” He picked up a report from his table. “He was caught stealing an apple from a pushcart. Then he ran away from two of my officers. One of them twisted his ankle,” he added, pointing out the door as if to identify the man.

  “No, Mama, I didn’t do it,” Moshe protested.

  “Quiet that boy or I will,” the captain threatened.

  “Moshe, please don’t say anything,” Clara warned. “Captain, I am sure this is a big misunderstanding. My boy is not a thief. Please let me take him home.”

  The captain took a seat in his large swivel chair and swung around to look out the window that offered a view of the market square.

  “Perhaps, Mrs. Potasznik, you can provide some service that would allow me to forget the incident.”

  “A service? What could I offer someone like you, Captain?”

  With a motion that startled Clara and Shmuel, he spun back around, lifted his legs, and slammed his boots on the desk, releasing a cloud of dust that mingled with the cigar smoke swirling in the air. “I understand that you are the wife of a cobbler.”

  “I am,” said Clara.

  “I would like a pair of new boots made.”

  “I would be happy to do that for you, sir, but my husband is in America, and Shmuel is running the shop. He can repair shoes, but he has no skill in making them.”

  The captain fixed his eyes on Shmuel. “You had better learn fast. I expect a fine pair of new shiny black boots by the end of the month.”

  “Yes, Captain, you will have the most beautiful pair of boots,” Shmuel said, clearly trying not to let his fear show.

  “Very good. You may take the boy. Do not disappoint me,” he said, staring at Clara and Shmuel.

  Clara looked at Shmuel with surprise, thinking, He’s never made a pair of boots—or even shoes, for that matter. What will the captain’s retribution be if he doesn’t approve of the finished product? Will he take it out on Moshe? And why would a man of his status bully people like us?

  She stood up and intentionally avoided eye contact with the handsome captain as she grabbed Moshe’s hand.

  “Moshe,” the captain said, stepping around his desk and leaning over to shake a massive finger in the boy’s face. “No more stealing.”

  CHAPTER 15

  JAKOB MEETS NITA

  The fire killed 146 women and men. Most were women between sixteen and twenty-three years old, Jakob read on the front page of The Forward.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he overheard a man nearby. “They were jumping from the tenth floor because the managers locked the doors to prevent unauthorized work breaks.”

  Jakob lifted his eye
s from the newspaper to realize that others were also reading about the disaster at the Triangle Shirt-waist Factory. There were dozens of men and women lining the benches on the Delancey Street mall, reading and talking about the deadliest industrial disaster in the city’s history.

  What about Manny? He wasn’t mentioned in the article. Would the owner of the building be held liable for the deaths?

  Jakob folded up his newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and walked in the direction of Manny’s office. Someone there must know what is going on.

  When he arrived at Manny’s office, the door was open. Jakob could see Manny looking through his large dirty glass window onto the street below. He knocked on the doorframe to get his attention. “Manny,” he called.

  “Hello Jakob, come sit. I’m glad you’re here,” he said, motioning to the chair.

  “I heard you were arrested—what happened?”

  “I was, but I was released this morning. It’s good to have friends,” he said with a glimmer in his eye. “And I am not responsible. My tenant is. I hope he has friends—he’s going to need them.”

  “Oh great. I’m happy to see you’re okay.”

  “Yes, I’m fine. How about you and Pincus? How is the space for the store? Do you like the apartment?”

  “It’s perfect. Pincus is very happy. He’s started cleaning and organizing, and he’s already ordered a sign.”

  “Excellent. Now let’s talk about you.”

  He moved around to the front of his desk and leaned against it. “Here’s my idea. My clients will bring in their shoes for a shine or a repair, and they’ll drop off what they owe inside their shoes. One of my associates will visit you at the end of each day to collect. Very easy.”

  “I see. Umm . . . that seems okay, but I’d rather not tell Pincus. He wouldn’t understand.”

  “That’s fine with me, as long as he doesn’t interfere with the day-to-day business.”

  Jakob stood up to face Manny and asked, “Will this arrangement provide something for me?”