Gorpatsch calmly picked up his coat and hat and walked toward the front door. Blocking his exit stood Luke, the six-foot six, 350-pound bouncer.
“You just shot those two men,” Luke said.
“Very observant,” Gorpatsch said sarcastically. “And if you don’t want to be the third, I suggest you get out of my way.”
Luke’s gaze shifted from Gorpatsch to something over his shoulder.
Gorpatsch spun around to see what had distracted Luke from the intense encounter, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. Walking toward him, carrying a shotgun aimed right at him, was Pincus. Gorpatsch tried to comprehend the sight of this slight man with round, wire-rimmed glasses, wearing a round felt hat and a long black coat, and walking toward him with purposeful determination.
“Pincus, what are you doing?”
Those were the last words ever spoken by Leo Gorpatsch.
CHAPTER 75
PINCUS’S REVENGE
As Pincus pulled the trigger, the shotgun seemed to explode. Gorpatsch was blasted off his feet and crashed through the plate glass window and onto the sidewalk. His torso was ripped apart from the shotgun and the rest of his body sliced up by shards of glass.
Pincus looked out through the large hole that was once the Donnybrook’s window and saw Gorpatsch lying dead in a pile of packed snow that was turning red as he bled out. He turned around and handed the shotgun to Luke, who accepted it numbly, in shock at what just transpired.
Pincus walked over to Jakob. He got down on his knees and looked at him. Jakob stared blindly into nothingness. Pincus gently closed his eyelids. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he leaned closer and whispered, “Goodbye, my friend. I will never forget you.”
Pincus stood up and walked out the way he had come in, through the back door.
CHAPTER 76
MAN OF THE YEAR
We’re going to need a larger apartment, Pincus,” Mendel said, adjusting his tie as Pincus watched from a wobbly chair in the tiny kitchen.
“I’m sure, with three teenage boys,” agreed Pincus as he looked around at the cramped and cluttered apartment.
“But I would live anywhere as long as I have my Shmuel.”
“He’s a special boy. Clara and I are eternally grateful to him. Does he have plans?”
“Rabbi Shapira was a great inspiration to Shmuel. He learned so much working as his scribe that he’s decided to continue his studies and become a rabbi. Last week he registered at the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary on Henry Street.”
“That’s wonderful news,” Pincus said.
“It is. I’m very pleased. But now,” Mendel said, looking at his watch, “we should probably head over to the reception hall.”
Tonight would be a big night for the Landsman Society and especially for Pincus. He was to be named the society’s Man of the Year, in honor of his heroic rescue of his family and Shmuel from the battlefields of Galicia, as well as for having gunned down Leo Gorpatsch, the most notorious gangster on the Lower East Side.
Pincus Potasznik and his exploits had made front-page news in all the city papers. They had proclaimed him a local hero.
Tonight over a hundred families from Krzywcza would be honoring the man who not only was a local celebrity but who had helped them find housing, employment, health care, and more in America, as well as providing them with the inspiration to keep fighting against all odds.
“I’m proud of you, Pincus. You’ve come a long way since your days as a cobbler in the shtetl,” Mendel said.
“Thank you. When I think back over these past years, it’s hard to imagine it’s my own life,” said Pincus, as the men stepped out onto the busy street on their way to the reception hall.
A few months earlier, Pincus had resigned as the society’s president and Mendel had replaced him with a unanimous vote. As the new president, Mendel would be presiding over tonight’s program. He deserved a chance to lead, Pincus thought, because he was the real driving force of the Landsman Society from day one.
Like a returning hero, Pincus caused a stir as he entered the hall. Most of the thirty large round tables were already full. Children ran about looking for friends, while the women chatted among themselves, and the men blew cigar smoke up into the large brass-and-crystal lighting fixtures that hung throughout the ballroom.
Pincus spotted Clara and the children at the table of honor right up front, only a few feet from the dais. He gave Clara a gentle kiss on her cheek and smiled at his children as he took his seat. Mendel walked to the podium and banged a gavel to bring the meeting to order. After a few moments, the audience fell silent and the proceedings began.
“My friends,” Mendel began, “we have all traveled a long distance to be here today. While we have unique stories to tell about our journeys, there is one common thread we share, and that is our faith. But what is faith? As our great Rabbi Shapira taught us, faith is a belief in something that is not based in fact. So why do we choose to believe in something when we have no proof of its existence? Why do we leave our birthplace, our homes to travel to a faraway land? Do we base our decision on hope? Hope is only a wish for something better. Faith, on the other hand, is a belief in the strength of one’s community. It is the knowledge that together we can overcome obstacles. Individually, we have only hope, but together, we can bravely face the unknown with our faith.
“Ladies and gentlemen, children, today we are here to honor a man who has epitomized such a belief in faith. He is a man who has ventured into the cauldron and returned. He is a remarkable person, father, husband, and friend. But before we bring him up here to say a few words, there is someone else who deserves to share equally in this honor, and that, my friends, is Clara Potasznik.”
At the mention of her name, the audience rose to its feet and burst into applause. Clara sat stunned, seemingly transfixed, while her eyes darted around the table at her children, who gazed back lovingly. She turned to Pincus, who took her arm and encouraged her to stand. The thunderous applause continued. She blushed and acknowledged the appreciation with a gentle wave.
Later that night, after the guests had filed out of the ballroom, Mendel sat at the head table with Pincus and Clara. Pincus reached out and took Mendel’s folded hands, which rested on the wine-stained tablecloth.
“Mendel, you have been a true and loyal friend for many years. I want you to know how much I appreciate you and all you have done,” he said.
“Thank you for saying that. We’ve been through a lot together.”
“Clara and I will never forget you and Shmuel. You’ve been a big part of our lives.”
“Why would you say that, Pincus? Are you planning to go somewhere?” Mendel asked.
“Clara and I have found an apartment in the Bronx. It’s in a nice neighborhood with good schools. We need to get out of the Lower East Side. It’s not a good place to raise children.”
“This is a surprise. What about the cobbler shop?”
“We’ll open a new one on the Grand Concourse. I’ve already found a location. Moshe wants to learn the business, so I’ll take him in.”
“That sounds wonderful. Perhaps you’ll invite me and the boys to visit once you get settled,” said Mendel.
“Absolutely, Mendel. You can count on it.”
CHAPTER 77
THE CEMETERY
Pincus walked the pathway in the Beth David Cemetery, where the Landsman’s Society of Krzywcza’s section had two grand brick columns holding large wrought-iron gates at its entrance. The columns displayed in a series of brass plaques the names of the founding members, and Pincus’s name sat at the very top. This will be my life’s legacy, he thought.
Just beyond the entrance sat his family plot, currently with only one tombstone. He rolled the stone he’d picked up the other day around in his fingers. Before he placed it on top of the granite marker, he stopped to look. The tombstone read:
JOSEF HOROWITZ
A.K.A. JAKOB ADLER
BORN DECEMBER 11
, 1885
DIED JANUARY 16, 1915
“It’s a beautiful spring day, Jakob,” Pincus said aloud, looking up at the blue sky. “I wish you were here to enjoy it.”
He stepped forward and placed down the stone among the others. As he did, he noticed a woman walking toward him carrying a small bouquet of flowers. He turned to address her.
“Hello, Nita, it’s nice to see you again.”
She brushed aside a lock of her red hair and said, “You must be Pincus.”
“I am,” he said, sticking out his hand.
Shaking his hand, she looked down at the grave and said, “I remember meeting you at the Yoselle Rosenblatt concert at the Grand.”
Pincus nodded and said, “Yes, a wonderful performance.”
“Do you miss him?” she asked.
“Terribly. He was like my brother. We went through so much together.”
“Did you know that he told me he loved me and wanted to marry me? And I said no because of Leo.” She bowed her head in shame, then looked up to Pincus. Tears welled up in her blue eyes. “Jakob set up the meeting to kill Leo so he could be with me. That’s why he’s dead. It’s my fault.”
“That’s not true, Nita. It was Jakob and I who conspired with Theodor Bergman to snag Gorpatsch in an ambush. Actually the plan had nothing to do with you. I was to hide out in the backroom with the shotgun cocked and ready. When Jakob thought the timing was right, he was to signal me, and I would step out and shoot Gorpatsch. Things fell apart when Gorpatsch turned the tables and surprised us with his hidden pistol. If our plan had worked, Jakob would still be alive. It’s not your fault.”
“Thank you for saying that,” she said, looking again at the gravestone. “I never knew he’d changed his name from Josef Horowitz,” she chuckled.
“It had something to do with an accident in Warsaw before he immigrated to America,” Pincus said.
“Well, my name isn’t Nita Naldi either. I guess we all have our secrets. I shared my story with Jakob right before he was killed. I never got a chance to hear his story.”
They stood silently for a moment before she said, “I wish you and your family all the best.” Then she kissed Pincus on the cheek, turned, and walked away.
As Pincus left the cemetery, he wondered if Nita would recover from her loss. Having two lovers murdered is unimaginable. But for some reason, he suspected she would overcome it. She seemed the type.
Pincus hurried from the cemetery, hoping to catch the 2:48 train to Manhattan where he would get a connection to the Bronx and the new home he and his family had just moved into.
Clara seemed pleased as well. It had taken a while for them to get to know each other again. When they had resumed sleeping in the same bed, Clara had lain on her side with her back to Pincus, at first. One night, he had tried resting a hand on her hip, and when no protest had come, he had gradually moved his body closer to her. Within a few weeks, as the tension had melted away, Clara had allowed Pincus to embrace her each night.
He worked with Moshe every day at their cobbler shop on the Grand Concourse, passing down knowledge from master to apprentice. A third-generation business would certainly beat the odds for any commercial enterprise, Pincus thought proudly. But then, everything he had accomplished over the past five years had involved beating the odds. But if the rest of my life is peaceful, even dull and boring, I will die a happy man, Pincus thought, smiling to himself.
CHAPTER 78
DORA RETURNS
It took Moshe only a few months to learn the trade. Eventually Pincus would leave him alone to manage the shop and tend to the repairs and polishing. Moshe enjoyed the work, and the customers loved Moshe. Once they met Moshe, their mood seemed to change. If they walked into the shop grumpy, after a few minutes with the young cobbler, they left feeling more cheerful.
Soon his regular customers were telling their friends about the cobbler shop on the Grand Concourse. They said things like, “When you go, make sure you only deal with Moshe, not the father. He’s not so nice, but Moshe on the other hand, such a doll.” And “I don’t know what it is, but when I leave I feel so good. He has an amazing effect upon me.”
As summer approached, Pincus told Moshe that he was going to spend a week at Orchard Beach with Clara, Jennie, Anna and Hymie. If he wanted to come, they would close the shop.
Moshe thought about it and decided he would stay home. He didn’t want to disappoint his customers by not being there.
Clara cooked extra meals for Moshe and left explicit instructions on how to warm up each one. He thanked her and promised he would eat everything she made.
“Nothing will be thrown away,” he said.
They promised to buy him a souvenir as they said their goodbyes.
Moshe enjoyed the peace and quiet of the apartment. He slept soundly every night without his brother, Hymie, constantly asking him to do things in the middle of the night, like taking him to pee or getting him a glass of water.
Business in the store was good. Moshe had to stay late many evenings to catch up on his work. He seemed to be spending way too much time chitchatting with his customers.
One evening, shortly after had he had turned the sign around to say CLOSED, a woman knocked at the door. Moshe called out from the back of the shop that he was closed. But the knocking continued. He put down the new leather sole he was preparing to nail onto a waiting shoe and walked to the front.
A woman’s face peered through the glass front door.
“Would you mind please letting me in? I promise not to take long,” she pleaded.
Moshe looked closer at her face. She looked pretty with bright blue eyes and blond hair in tight curls falling upon her shoulders. He opened the door.
“Thank you very much,” she said breathlessly, as she entered the shop.
Moshe looked at her and asked, “How may I be of service?”
She pulled a pair of tall boots out of a cloth bag and handed them to Moshe.
“I would like to have the soles replaced. These are very old boots. I had them made for me in Berlin and they cost me a fortune. Aren’t they lovely, Moshe?”
Moshe didn’t think twice about the fact that she knew his name. Most likely a referral, someone had told her to ask for him. He was used to it.
He examined the boots. They were indeed beautiful, tall and slender and crafted with two types of leather. The base of the boot was sculpted in black with a pointed toe and a three-inch heel. The upper was made of gray leather and highlighted with twelve rows of grommet holes for the laces, which would finish just below the calf. His father would have loved to see shoes of this quality. Moshe hoped she wouldn’t need them before Pincus returned so he could see them.
“These are indeed very handsome, miss.” He paused and looked at her, waiting for her name.
“Dora Meltzer.”
Moshe wrote her name and address on the work ticket. “I can replace the soles for two dollars. When do you need them?”
“Oh, there’s no rush,” she said.
“Would it be okay to wait a few days? I would love for my father to see these boots. It’s not often we get a quality footwear to work on.”
“Of course, that would be fine,” she said with a charming smile that caused Moshe’s pulse to quicken.
“And now, Moshe, let’s put aside this pretending and talk about why I am really here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let me tell you about myself. I practice the art called the wisdom of the hand. It is a Hebrew palm-reading technique that goes back to the 1500s. People come to see me for advice on business, family issues, sickness, and most often, advice on love,” she said, looking directly at Moshe.
At that, Moshe felt a touch of nausea wash over him, but it was not overwhelming, not like it had been for him before, and it soon passed.
“Five years ago, I met your father, Pincus, on the SS Amerika. He and his friend Jakob came to see me in my cabin for a reading. I read your father’s palm
and I saw you. I told him his eldest son had a special power that very few people have.”
She reached out and grabbed his right wrist. She turned his hand over and gently ran a caressing finger across his palm. Moshe froze at her sensual touch.
“Moshe, let me look at you,” she said.
She held his wrist and traced the lines of his palm with the soft touch of her right hand, decorated with deep blue nail polish.
“There it is, the simian crease. It is true, Moshe. You are one,” she said, looking into his eyes as she held on to his wrist.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Moshe replied and tugged his hand back.
She tightened her grip and resumed her reading. “You have the power of the empath. I see it clearly. Oh, you are special, Moshe. You are a tzaddik.”
He forcibly pulled his wrist out of her grasp and said, “Please, Miss Meltzer, I would like you to leave.”
“Moshe, don’t you understand? You have abilities that are unique and could be very powerful. I understand that you want to help people. You cannot do this here, in a cobbler’s shop. You need to be on a bigger stage. I can help you, teach you.”
She took a step back toward the door.
“Come with me now. My car is right outside. You can live with me in my beautiful home.”
Moshe looked at the elegant woman standing before him. She stirred unfamiliar erotic feelings deep inside him. He wanted to go with her. But he remembered the rabbi’s warning and pushed away the urges.
“You must go now, Miss Meltzer. I am not interested in your offer,” Moshe said. The nausea returned, forcing him to sit down and place his head on his knees.
“Moshe, my dear boy, are you all right?” Dora asked.
“You must leave now, please,” Moshe begged.
“Nonsense. You need me to take care of you,” she said. She walked over to the door and tapped on the glass. A man who was waiting outside entered. He needed to duck his head as he walked in.
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