“Hey, kid, nice of you to make an appearance. You Jews have been playing hard to get lately,” he said.
“Good evening, Mr. Kowalski. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Oh, you don’t? Well, let me explain it, then.”
Kowalski made a gesture, and before Jack could do anything, the thug grabbed his arm and twisted it. Jack let out a groan as he fought to free himself.
“Relax, kid,” Kowalski whispered in his ear. “I ain’t stupid enough to leave you crippled, not just yet. I just wanted you to know that I’m done waiting, so tell your pop to stop hiding away like a cockroach and pay me what he owes, or I’ll smash the door down and drag him out myself.”
Jack couldn’t understand Kowalski’s rage over a couple of electricity bills. When he pointed it out, the landlord turned red.
“To hell with the bills. I want the money he owes me for the rent and the whiskey I’ve given him. And this ain’t a request!” he yelled. “Make sure your father understands. Tell him I don’t care if he doesn’t open the door. If I don’t have my hundred dollars in my office by tomorrow, I’ll come for the two of you and break some bones.”
Kowalski signaled the goon again, who shoved Jack toward the door. Then they turned and disappeared into the rain.
Jack straightened his torn raincoat. He’d have liked to have told the landlord just what he thought of him and his family, but everyone in the neighborhood knew that Kowalski’s men were always packing heat. He brushed the dust from his hat and climbed the stairs to the apartment. The steps creaked. When he arrived, he went to speak to his father to find out what was going on. Seeing him, Solomon grumbled. “You’re making a face. What, they didn’t pay you today?”
Solomon always asked the same question. Jack ignored him.
“I bumped into the landlord downstairs.”
“You did? The bastard tried to come in here, but I didn’t open the door. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that lowlife in.”
“Why does he swear that we owe him a hundred bucks?”
“What? How should I know? You know that bigmouth, always talking garbage.” He looked away. Then he headed toward the kitchen and grabbed a bourbon bottle.
“Father!” Jack persisted.
“He swears . . . He swears . . . I’ll pay him! Haven’t I spent my whole life paying my way?”
“What do you mean you’ll pay him? What happened to the money I’ve been giving you for the rent?”
Solomon, gripping the whiskey, fell silent. Slowly, he put the bottle down on the table and lowered his head. Jack couldn’t believe what his father was confessing with his silence.
“You’ve g-g-got to be kidding me. Tell me it’s not true,” he stammered.
“Didn’t you hear me, damn it? I told you I’ll pay him!”
Suddenly, Jack felt a stab of terror. He turned and ran to the sideboard in the kitchen, opened a drawer, and took out a small cigar box, praying to God that he was wrong. But when he lifted the lid, his suspicions were confirmed. He waved the empty box in front of his father’s face.
“Where’s Mother’s bracelet? What have you done with it?”
“Do you not have eyes in that head? It’s not there,” he muttered. Then he slumped into a chair.
Jack threw the box to the floor. He had an unstoppable desire to punch the person who’d pissed away their last flicker of hope. For a moment, he felt sorry for his father, but the prospect of finding himself out on the street hardened his heart. He looked around the apartment in desperation.
“All right. We’ll sell the menorah. It’s solid bronze; perhaps the shylock who bought our other belongings will give us enough for it to keep Kowalski off our backs until—”
“Never! I’ll sooner sell my soul!” Solomon roared, standing between Jack and the candelabrum.
He said it with such feeling that Jack was certain that he’d make good on his threat. Even so, he tried to make his father reconsider.
“Those men aren’t joking. If we don’t pay them, they’ll throw us on the street with our legs busted into more pieces than we can count.”
“I said no! Do you hear me? Sell whatever you want. The tables. The chairs. The shoes. But don’t even think about touching my menorah, or I swear on your mother’s memory I’ll make you regret it.”
Jack clenched his teeth. He wouldn’t even get three dollars for all the junk his father mentioned. He tried to reassure him, promising him that hocking the menorah would only be a temporary measure, and that they’d get it back when he’d found a decent job.
“And when will that happen?” Solomon replied, beside himself. “Since you got back from Detroit with your tail between your legs, you’ve been talking big about finding a job, but the best you’ve come up with is changing a few tires at some dump of a repair shop.”
Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d used up all of his savings to look after his father, and this was the thanks he got for it. Even so, he tried to keep his cool.
“Let’s leave it for now. We can talk later, when you’re sober.”
“No, we’ll talk now! I don’t need a clear head to know who’s to blame for all of this,” Solomon went on. “You and your delusions of grandeur! If you’d stayed at the shoe store, none of this would’ve happened.”
“Let’s leave it, Father. Now’s not the time to—”
“And when will be the time? When you decide? Oh, of course. I forgot . . . It’s high-and-mighty Jack who decides when we speak and when we don’t. High-and-mighty Jack doesn’t have to be a miserable shoemaker like his father. In fact”—he stood, puffing and panting—“high-and-mighty Jack is so important that he had to leave his family and go off to live on the other side of the country while his mother was dying and his father worked himself to death mending shoes.”
Jack felt a dagger pierce his heart. He hadn’t abandoned anyone. In fact, he had never forgiven Solomon for not telling him when his mother fell sick. And while he was in Dearborn, he had sent half his salary to his parents each month. He was consumed with rage.
“Everyone has the right to choose what they do with their lives! At least I lived well, and not like some poor wretch as you would’ve had me living!”
“How dare you? Get out!” yelled Solomon, turning away. He tried to get a last swig from the empty bourbon bottle, and seeing that not a drop remained, he smashed it on the floor. “I took care of you and your mother. If we don’t have anything now, it’s because—”
“Because you blow the money on booze!” Jack blurted out.
“Go! Get out of this house. Nobody wants you here anymore.”
Jack clenched his fists. Then he headed to his bedroom, threw his remaining clothes into his suitcase, and closed it, leaving a shirt cuff hanging out. He picked up the photograph of his mother and looked at it. He considered what to do. Finally, he put the case down on the bed, went out, and crossed the living room.
“Where’re you going?”
Jack didn’t answer. He left the apartment and slammed the door, making the entire stairway shake.
As he prepared himself for a terrible night’s sleep curled up in the hallway, he made out his father’s muffled voice behind the door, sobbing. “Please, son . . . Don’t leave me now.”
As Jack progressed north through Manhattan, the old brick buildings gradually gave way to taller, more modern structures, before finally being replaced by brand-new stone colossi, the streets between them seething with pedestrians and vehicles, which, despite the blight of the Depression, seemed to broadcast that New York remained the center of the universe.
The hands on his watch were not yet pointing to noon when he stopped to examine the towering complex of buildings that made up Rockefeller Center. Some of the real estate was still under construction, but the main tower was already a vast edifice of concrete and steel that rose defiantly as far as the eye could see. Jack stood admiring it. It may not have been as high as the Empire State or
as elegant as the Chrysler Building, but even before its official opening, the Rockefeller could boast something that no other structure could: inside, America’s richest men decided the world’s fate. He imagined his uncle, Gabriel Beilis, was one of them.
He took his time to find a way into the building. After skulking around the area, he discovered one of the entrances where a continuous stream of office workers went in and out. For a moment, he envied them. Their immaculate suits and narrow ties reminded him of his days in Dearborn. But he pushed those thoughts away. He knew that if he tried to intermingle with them, he’d be discovered and, most likely, arrested. Fortunately, he saw a group of workmen heading toward the entrance. Without a second thought, he took off his hat and helped the last worker with the joist that he was carrying.
Once inside, he moved away from the workmen and hid behind a pillar, from where he could marvel at the sumptuous entrance hall. He’d never seen anything like it. The lobby glistened with dozens of golden murals that contrasted magnificently with the black marble of the floor. He looked for the elevators, which he found strung along an endless corridor. He counted fifteen. In reality, he didn’t know exactly where he had to go, but when two office workers headed toward one of the doors, he took the opportunity to follow them. When he was about to walk into the elevator, a uniformed security guard grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Pardon me, son, but I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before. Do you have an appointment?”
“I sure do,” Jack lied.
“Right. Well, in that case, do me a favor and check in at the desk,” he said doubtfully.
Jack shrugged off the security guard, brushed his jacket down in an attempt to recover some of the dignity that he felt he’d been robbed of, then headed to the huge timber desk crowned with an impressive polished marble countertop. Behind it, a middle-aged receptionist wearing flawless makeup turned to greet him.
“How can I help you, sir?” The woman smiled, barely looking up.
“I wish to see Mr. Gabriel Beilis. Spelled B-e-i-l-i-s. Of Schwalbert and Associates.”
“Which building?” The receptionist slid her thick-rimmed glasses to the tip of her nose so that she could observe the newcomer over them, but when she saw Jack’s disheveled appearance, her friendly smile changed to a grimace of disapproval.
“I couldn’t say. All I know is that he works here.”
“Sir, this is a large complex of buildings . . . Forget it, I’ll take a look for you.” She opened a folder and searched for the surname. “Beilis . . . Beilis . . . Oh yes, here it is. Beilis, Gabriel, of Schwalbert and Associates. You’re in the right lobby, forty-fourth floor. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, it’s a courtesy visit,” he lied again.
The woman arched an eyebrow, but replaced the receiver.
“What company do you work for?”
“Excuse me?”
“What company do you represent, sir? I need to know so that I can announce you.”
“Solomon’s Shoe Works. The name’s Jack,” was the first thing that occurred to him.
The receptionist dialed the extension. After a few seconds, she hung up.
“I’m sorry, but there appears to be a problem with the line. Would you be kind enough to step to the side so that I can attend to the next visitor?”
“It’s urgent; please try again,” he pleaded.
“Sir, I’m afraid that I can’t help you until the line’s working again.”
“Sure. Do you know when that will be?”
“I don’t know. Step aside, please. I’ll let you know as soon as the line’s free.”
Jack was about to insist, when the guard who had stopped him approached the desk.
“Is there a problem, Beth?”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Tom. The young man was about to leave.” The woman gave Jack a challenging look.
“Look, miss. I’ve walked here from Williamsburg, and I’m not moving until—”
“Right, that’s enough, kid!” The guard grabbed Jack by the shoulder.
“Let go of me!”
The security guard held Jack with a clamp-like grip and moved him away from the line that had formed behind him, forcibly leading him toward the exit. He was about to throw him out, when a man stepped between them.
“Wait a minute, Tom. Jack? Is it you?”
The guard recognized the suited man and immediately let go of Jack.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Deniksen. Do you know this gentleman?”
“Ben? Ben Deniksen?” Jack looked at him disbelievingly. Then he clasped him in an affectionate hug. When they separated, he looked at the man with surprise. It really was old Ben Deniksen, a close family friend he hadn’t seen for ten years. His hair had grayed, but he wore the same sideburns and bushy mustache. Ben worked as Gabriel’s accountant.
“Jack, little Jack . . .” A smile spread across his face. “God! I barely recognized you! You’re a head taller than me, and you were still in shorts last time I saw you,” he exaggerated. “What’re you doing in New York? I thought you were in Michigan. I haven’t seen your father for some time. You know . . . things aren’t the same with him.” He screwed up his face. “Anyway, what brings you to the Rockefeller?”
“Well, I came to—” He broke off for a moment. “I wanted to speak to my uncle Gabriel.”
Benjamin frowned in disbelief. “Whoa, Jack.” He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I don’t really care whether it’s a good idea or not, Ben. I need to speak to him.”
Benjamin could see the desperation on his face. “All right. Come with me. I’ll see what I can do.”
Jack followed Benjamin down the long corridor. Finally, they reached another lobby containing four elevators. They took the first. Jack had never been in such a modern contraption. The elevator traveled at an incredible speed and eventually stopped on the forty-fourth floor. Benjamin told him to wait at the secretary’s desk and disappeared through a door, over which a bronze plaque announced:
SCHWALBERT & ASSOCIATES
GABRIEL BEILIS, CHIEF EXECUTIVE
While he waited, Jack wondered whether coming to Rockefeller Center had been a good idea, but he had no choice if he wished to protect his father. The door suddenly burst open, and Benjamin, with a cautious expression, invited him to go in. Jack straightened his raincoat and smoothed his hair back with his hand. Despite his height and piercing blue eyes, he had quickly learned that, without money, a man’s looks dissipated like a puff of smoke on a blustery day.
Inside the office, sitting on an easy chair upholstered in sumptuous red velvet, a man with white hair at the temples and pronounced wrinkles was perusing the report that lay on his desk. Jack stood in silence beside Benjamin until the accountant coughed, causing Gabriel Beilis to look up from the report. The man observed Jack.
“All right, Ben. You can leave us now.”
Benjamin obeyed.
Alone facing his uncle, Jack took a deep breath. Gabriel Beilis stood, revealing an impeccable dark suit that looked newly bought. He had aged, but he still had the eyes of a wolf. The two of them remained silent long enough for Jack to feel uncomfortable. In the end, it was the young man who broke the silence.
“It’s been a while . . . ,” he began as he held out his hand. Gabriel didn’t take it. Instead, he went to the window and looked defiantly out at the sky.
“Come, take a look,” he said in a tone that made every syllable an order. “See that there? Central Park, once the green pride of New York, now a vagrant-infested pigsty. Twenty years ago, you could take a pleasant stroll there with your children. Now, those creatures would strip you to the bones.” He shook his head in a gesture of disapproval. “So,” he said, finally turning to his nephew, “tell me, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Jack swallowed. He wasn’t sure where to begin, or how to express the extent of his desperation. In the end, he just blurted it out.
“Th
ey’re going to evict us.”
The man stood looking at him without replying. He opened a box of cigars, lit one, and took a long pull, savoring its flavor.
“That’s it?” He wandered around the office. “After ten years, you show up here and have the nerve to say to me, ‘Uncle Gabriel, they’re going to throw us out onto the street.’ Not even an apology. Nothing.” He took another puff on the cigar. “Tell me something, Jacob, or Jack, as you call yourself now. What am I supposed to say in reply to that? Pretend nothing happened? Put aside my anger and help? I don’t even understand how your father could’ve sent you here.”
Jack was unsure how to respond. He still couldn’t grasp why his uncle blamed him for the accident that Walter had caused.
“My father doesn’t know I’m here. If he’d known I was coming, he would’ve stopped me.”
“So why go against his wishes?”
“I told you. We have nowhere to go.”
“I see. Well, evictions are common these days. Life’s tough. For you, for Solomon, for everybody.”
Jack contemplated the luxury that surrounded him. “Tougher for some than others.” Until that day, he had underestimated the progress that his uncle had made.
“True. For instance, you can still walk, and my poor son can’t.”
Jack moved closer to the man who seemed to be taking such pleasure in his misfortune.
“Forget about me and think of Solomon. Your brother needs you, sir.”
“That man’s not my brother!” he yelled. “For God’s sake, I don’t even know why I’m talking to you!”
“Please, Uncle. You’re flesh and blood, and our religion obliges us to—”
“What? You dare to come here and talk to me about religion?” He turned around, fixing his eyes on Jack. “You, Jacob, who calls himself Jack because he’s ashamed of his Jewish roots? You who ate whatever he pleased and never observed the Sabbath? No, Jacob. If you’d cared about your religion, you’d have learned that a Jew never attacks another Jew.”
The Last Paradise Page 3
