A Cobbler's Tale

by Neil Perry Gordon

  Pincus and Jakob took seats in deeply tufted chairs upholstered in rich dark green velour.

  Leading with his hand extended, the unusual man hinged at his waist, allowing his head to travel a long arcing distance from the ceiling to inches from Pincus’s face. Pincus regarded his colorless eyes and translucent, smooth, hairless skin. “My name is Mr. Marcus,” he said offering his frigid, skeletal hand.

  Pivoting, he swung clockwise to offer a similar greeting to Jakob, and then unwound to a standing position. “Gentlemen, you will each have twenty minutes with Madame Dora. You may not write anything down during the session, but you may ask questions. Do not touch Madame and stay seated until your session has concluded. If you do not follow the rules, your session will be terminated.”

  Jakob stood up, gave his short waistcoat a tug from the bottom hem to smooth its creases, smiled and winked at Pincus, and said, “I guess I’ll go first.” He entered through another set of elaborate carved doors into the palmist’s chambers.

  Pincus waited nervously, trying to avert his eyes from the perpetual stare of Mr. Marcus, who sat across from him in what appeared to be a miniature chair, his giant frame folded down upon it. Pincus reminded himself that he shouldn’t complain about the awkwardness of the company, as it was much better than his lodgings in steerage.

  Twenty minutes later, the doors opened, and Jakob appeared. His emerald eyes sparkled with excitement, and he said, “She is incredible, Pincus.” Then, looking over to Mr. Marcus, he asked, “How does she know?”

  “She is connected to the spirit world, Mr. Jakob.” Mr. Marcus rose like a marionette and motioned with a flutter of his long fingers for Pincus to enter the chamber for his session.

  Pincus stood up and felt as if some kind of spirit had possessed his body. His legs seemed to be lifting of their own volition, propelling him forward even as he tried to remain rooted in place. With each involuntary footstep, he entered into Dora Meltzer’s sanctum.

  Burning incense rose from elaborately decorated glass jars that filled the room with spicy aromas. Then he heard her voice as softly as the swirling smoke of the incense.

  “Come, Pincus, and sit down,” offered Dora.

  There she grew visible through a transparent curtain of misty vapors. As Pincus took a seat across from her, his eyes felt glued to her face. Her cheekbones were brushed with a reddish tint, and widely spaced in her young face were the most beautiful blue eyes Pincus had ever seen. Their color was highlighted by shades of blue makeup with sparkles twinkling across each lid and extending to the temples. Thick ringlets of blond curls framed her face, rolled down her shoulders, and fell upon her exquisite breasts.

  “Give me your hands,” she said, snapping Pincus out of his stupor. Careful not to knock over the numerous candles on the embroidered tablecloth, Pincus placed his hands in hers. The moment their hands touched, she closed her grip tightly as a signal that he was not to move them again until she had completed her reading.

  She glanced at his palms and lifted her delicate chin to give him a catlike stare. The only woman with whom he had ever shared such an intimate moment before was Clara. However, Dora Meltzer was nothing like the pregnant wife he had left at home, where he always felt in control. Her stunning beauty left him feeling vulnerable to her charms.

  “Pincus,” she began, as she traced the lines in his right palm. “You are on a journey of discovery, where you will find great challenges and significant successes in your new life. I see that you are a craftsman . . . that you work with your hands.” She gently stroked his calluses.

  “Yes, I am a cobbler.”

  “You will open a business in America, and you will find great success.”

  Pincus nodded as if she had commanded it.

  Digging her nails into the skin of his palm, she said seriously, “Pincus, you have a family you left behind.”

  He felt a sudden sense of shame and nervously tried to pull his hands away. But Dora held on tightly.

  “Do not wait any longer than a year to return for your family. I sense real danger if you wait too long,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. “You have a son?”

  “I have two sons.”

  “Your eldest son, he is the special one.”

  “You mean Moshe? He is my eldest,” said Pincus, surprised.

  “Moshe, yes—he is the one. . . .” She looked again at the lines in his palm. “He is the one you must save. Do not forget him. Bring him to America,” she said, and released his hands, breaking the spell. He rose quickly and left her chamber.

  When he saw Jakob, he said meekly, “Let’s go.”

  As they returned to steerage, Pincus shoved his hands deep into his pockets to hide how badly they were shaking.

  CHAPTER 6

  JAKOB’S STORY

  My name is Jakob Adler,” he told the ticket agent with the Hamburg-Amerika Line. He was afraid he would need to provide proof of identify, but apparently, the ticket agents were so busy selling passages to America that checking such details was not considered important.

  He shoved the receipt and boarding ticket into his coat pocket and ran a few blocks to his apartment building. Bounding up the steps two at a time, he climbed the five flights in a minute. Hastily and quietly, he unlocked the front door and entered his apartment. He gathered his essential belongings, threw them in his valise, and flew back down the stairs and out the front door. He was on the run.

  Once inside Warsaw’s Central Railway Station, he read on the large board that the train to Hamburg was leaving in a few minutes from Track 4. Cocking his hat at an angle to partially conceal his face, he walked slowly to the platform. After he’d waited only moments, the train arrived. He boarded, found his compartment, tucked his valise overhead, and took a seat by the window. Slowly the train pulled away from the station. He repositioned his hat to cover his eyes, rested his head upon the seat back and sighed with relief. I think I’ll make it, he thought.

  He was very fortunate that the ticket agent had allowed a casual change of name. Josef Horowitz was now Jakob Adler. Leaving his old identity behind was crucial for his escape and hopefully provided a guarantee that he wouldn’t be tracked down by Fein’s gang.

  He had stumbled across the name when he’d read about the unfortunate drowning accident of a Jakob Adler a few days earlier in the obituary section of the newspaper. He was a good match, a twenty-five-year-old Jew, the same age as Josef.

  He had been thinking about emigrating to America for several months. His life in Warsaw had little promise. He needed a fresh start, and he figured that stealing from a crook like Benjamin Fein was not a bad thing. Absconding with a few days of collections totaled about two hundred and fifty rubles. That should be plenty to begin a new life in America.

  He had worked for Fein for years collecting debts for the gangster. The Fein gang worked the large Jewish communities in Warsaw, offering illegal, high-interest loans and providing merchants with protection for a price.

  As a trusted gang member, he had the keys to the office and the combination of the safe. While Ben was out to some family event, Jakob had entered the office, and opened the safe, taken the bills off one of the stacks, and slipped them into his pocket. He was on his way out when the door opened, and Ben walked in.

  After a few accusatory words, Ben pulled a handgun and fired it at him. The gun jammed and misfired. As Ben regarded the gun with disgust, Jakob quickly jumped him and tackled him to the ground.

  Ben was a small, skinny man and no physical match for Jakob, who easily ripped the gun from his grasp and pinned Ben to the ground. As they struggled with the gun, it suddenly fired. The bullet went through Ben’s neck and out through the back of his skull.

  Shocked at what he had done, Jakob stood up and saw Ben lying in a pool of blood. He knelt down and placed the gun into Ben’s outstretched right hand. Perhaps, with his reputation for not paying his creditors, the police would call it a suicide. Ben’s gang, however, would certainly be more suspiciou
s, Jakob realized.

  Moments before the train was about to leave the station, a family with two young children joined him in the compartment. He raised his head and removed his hat to greet them. He had made a pledge to himself that he would not speak to anyone on the ten-hour train ride to Hamburg. There were many large cities along the way, and there was a risk that he might meet someone who knew him, as they made stops at Poznan and Berlin before arriving in Hamburg. But he couldn’t resist the playful, innocent charm of the boy, whom he guessed to be around five years old, and who greeted him with a friendly smile.

  He offered his hand to the little boy and tried out his new name. “I am Jakob Adler.”

  The boy turned to his father, who nodded his approval. “My name is Simon,” he answered, putting his tiny hand in Jakob’s giant grip.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Simon,” Jakob said and stood to introduce himself to the remaining members of the family.

  Dressed in fashionable coats and hats, Simon’s parents seemed well off. The father wore a closely trimmed red beard and greeted Jakob with a curt nod and a handshake. “Pleased to meet you. My name is Mr. Gorpatsch. Where are you headed?”

  Sitting next to Mr. Gorpatsch was his wife, an elegantly slender woman wearing an elaborate hat decorated with a bright yellow sunflower that seemed perfectly suited to her beautiful face. On her lap perched Simon’s sister, a younger girl, cute but shy, unlike her outgoing brother.

  “I am going to Hamburg to sail for America,” he said, and immediately regretted doing so. He had not planned to tell anyone where he was going.

  “How exciting for you, Mr. Adler,” said Mrs. Gorpatsch.

  “Yes, I am very excited,” he said, reacting a moment too slowly to his new name for the first time.

  “Where are you from, Mr. Adler?” Mr. Gorpatsch inquired.

  “I am originally from Poznan, but I live now in Warsaw.”

  “What did you do in Warsaw?”

  “I worked for a moving company, helping people move their belongings from their old home to a new one,” he improvised, hoping the momentary pause before his reply didn’t sound suspicious.

  “Very impressive that you were able to save enough money for a ticket to America.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t spend much, and this has been my dream for many years. Where, may I ask, is your destination?”

  “We are going to Berlin to visit relatives. Perhaps one day we too will emigrate to America. But I have too many business interests in Warsaw to leave right now,” Mr. Gorpatsch said.

  The trip to Berlin took seven hours, and Jakob spent most of the time playing with the boy, Simon. Mr. Gorpatsch seemed to appreciate the attention to his little son and asked where he planned on settling in America.

  “Most likely in New York City,” he said. “I was told that’s where most Jews settle, a place they call they the Jewish capital of America.”

  “Yes, that’s true. It’s called the Lower East Side. I’ve been there. You will find everything you need.”

  “You’ve been to America?” Jakob said in amazement.

  “Yes, I do business there,” Mr. Gorpatsch told him. “You know, I like you, Jakob. I can size up a man quickly, and you impress me. Perhaps I can help you get settled in America. You will need work and a place to live?”

  “Yes, yes I will,” he stammered. “That would be great.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Mr. Gorpatsch drew out a card and reached across to the opposite bench seat where Jakob sat with Simon.

  “Here, call Manny when you get to New York. Tell him you met me and give him this card. He’ll take care of you. The next time I come to New York, if you’re still working with Manny, I’ll look you up and see how you’re doing.”

  Jakob looked at the card, which read:

  MANNY PLOTNICK ENTERPRISES

  210 DELANCEY STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  TELEPHONE: OR7-1570

  “Thank you, Mr. Gorpatsch,” he said sincerely, tucking the card safely into his pocket with his most important documents.

  As the Gorpatsch family gathered their bags and valises and disembarked at the Berlin Central, Simon jumped into his arms and gave him a big hug. Smiles and warm handshakes were shared as they said their farewells.

  Through his window, he watched Mr. Gorpatsch call for a porter to help with their valises. A middle-aged man dressed all in black with an official porter’s cap hurried over with a hand truck. As he attended to the luggage, Mr. Gorpatsch casually leaned over and mouthed some words into his wife’s ear. Her expression turned cold as she quickly lifted her eyes toward Jakob’s window.

  What did he say to her? Shaking off the possibility of getting caught in an inconsequential lie, he settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. It was another three hours to Hamburg.

  CHAPTER 7

  SAILING TO AMERICA

  Leaning on the ship’s rail, Pincus watched the sun rise across the vast ocean. This quiet time offered him privacy from the crowds of the floating city of a thousand passengers plus crew. Except for the first night of the storm in the North Sea, the North Atlantic waters had been calm.

  It was also a time to fight back his worries about Clara and the children, and in particular Dora Meltzer’s strange remarks about Moshe. He wondered why she had said Moshe was special. He seemed like a normal nine-year-old boy, perhaps a bit more sensitive than most.

  Clara had mentioned several times that she thought Moshe could understand when she was upset. “He has a keen sense of my feelings,” she had said.

  Pincus rarely noticed such things, though now he regretted not having paid more attention to his children.

  He filled his days watching his fellow steerage passengers mingling topside. Couples were seen strolling along the deck reminiscing over stories of home, weaving dreams of their new life, sharing gossip, and playing cards.

  Pincus thought most of the passengers in steerage looked honest and respectable. But he couldn’t help his fascination with shady and questionable-looking characters, and steerage offered plenty to amuse him.

  Most interesting were the single men, conversing and mingling among themselves, who, Pincus imagined, had left their homeland to escape the law. These were not like the men Pincus knew from the shtetl. They probably came from big cities like Warsaw and Krakow, he figured.

  An unwashed man with a limp hobbled by him. His face featured a swollen scar that traveled down from his left eye and ended at his lip. Pincus watched him stop to speak to a larger and equally dirty man. Perhaps they were even now strategizing their criminal career opportunities in the New World.

  He then observed Jakob speaking to two young, nefarious-looking men.

  Finishing up his conversation, Jakob approached him. “Pincus, you know the card game quilok?”

  “Yes, all the kids played quilok in my village.”

  “Great, I got a game with those two,” he said.

  Pincus followed the direction of Jakob’s large hand pointing at the two young men who now stared back at them.

  “Those men, Jakob? Why would you set up a game with them? They look um. . . .” He paused, stumbling for a way to describe them.

  “They look fine, and I know they have money, and we are going to take it from them. Just play the game as you know it and leave the rest to me,” he said with a slight smirk.

  Play for money? I’ve never played for money, Pincus thought, but he reluctantly followed Jakob toward the unsavory-looking men.

  Steerage passengers were not offered space in the grand salons that the two upper classes enjoyed. Instead, they assembled on assorted-sized wooden crates, which served as tables and chairs. Pincus sat down across from Jakob and watched their opponents take places next to them.

  Finding a seat to his right was a man probably in his mid-twenties. He had dark oily hair combed back straight and flat and a disturbingly pockmarked face, the result of some childhood illness, Pincus thought. He introduced himself as Dovid and of
fered a cold and clammy handshake. His partner’s name was Herschel, and his handshake actually compressed Pincus’s bones. He was powerfully built and looked like he could give Jakob a good fight, something Pincus hoped would never happen.

  Boys in the shtetl had played quilok in between their Torah studies. It was a quick, entertaining game that was played with twenty-four cards. The goal was to reach a threshold of points. Games lasted only minutes, and Pincus had been pretty good, winning more often than the other boys would care to admit. But he’d never played for money—that was not permitted or even considered.

  The storage room was cramped with other groups of men playing cards. Cigarette and cigar smoke filled the quarters along with singing and laughing, which created an environment that bewildered Pincus but appeared to comfort Jakob.

  Play moved fast, and Pincus kept up and won a few rounds. This pleased Jakob, who rewarded him with a subtle, proud glance. But it was Jakob who won the most games, perhaps too many, Pincus thought. He also noticed that Herschel and Dovid might be sharing a suspicion that Jakob was cheating.

  As the wins and coins piled up in front of Jakob, a few nearby men were getting loud and rowdy from drinking the cheap whiskey they had smuggled on board. Moments later a fight broke out. A very robust and rather round man, his face reddened from the exertion of wielding wild punches, crashed down upon their crate, scattering the cards and coins all over the deck. A mad scramble ensued, with Pincus dropping to all fours to catch the coins before they spiraled away, as Jakob used his massive arms as a broom to sweep them into his possession.

  “Quickly,” Jakob instructed Pincus as they grabbed as much as they could and ran from the storage room while the bedlam continued.

  Reaching the top deck, they found their favorite spot, next to the upper windows that peeked down into the first-class dining hall, and divided up their winnings.

  “Were you cheating?” asked Pincus.