“You can get just as much education four nights a week as you can five.”
“That will not hold water mathematically,” he said.
“Poppa, you’re a pretty smart man. Couldn’t you stay home just one night a week, say on Wednesdays, and take Momma out?”
“To me, the movies are not worth it.”
“You mean your wife is not worth it,” broke in Emma again.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” said Laban.
“Don’t fight, please,” said Sylvia. “Poppa, try to be considerate.”
“I’m too considerate,” Laban said. “That’s why I didn’t advance in my whole life up to now. It’s about time I showed some consideration for myself.”
“I’m not going to argue with you about that anymore, but I warn you, Poppa, you will have to take more responsibility about Momma. It isn’t fair to let her stay home all alone at night.”
“That’s her problem.”
“It’s yours,” broke in Emma.
Laban lost his temper. “It’s yours,” he shouted.
“Goodbye, Poppa,” said Sylvia hastily. “Tell Momma I’ll come over at eight o’clock.”
Laban hung up the receiver. His wife’s face was red. Her whole body was heaving with indignation.
“To who you married,” she asked bitterly, “to the night school?”
“Twenty-seven years I have been married to you in a life which I got nothing from it,” he said.
“You got to eat,” she said, “you got to sleep, and you got a nice house. From your wife who brought up your child, I will say nothing.”
“This is ancient history,” sneered Laban. “Tell me, please, have I got understanding? Did I get encouragement to study to take civil-service examinations so I am now a government clerk who is making twenty-six hundred dollars a year and always well provided for his family? Did I get encouragement to study subjects in high school? Did I get praise when I wrote letters to the editor which the best papers in New York saw fit to print them? Answer me this.”
“Hear thou me, Laban—” began Emma in Yiddish.
“Talk English, please,” Laban shouted. “When in Rome, do what the Romans do.”
“I don’t express myself so good in English.”
“So go to school and learn.”
Emma completely lost her temper. “Big words I need to clean the house? School I need to cook for you?” she shouted.
“You don’t have to cook for me!”
“I don’t have to cook?” she asked sarcastically. “So good!” Emma drew herself up. “So tonight, cook your own supper!” She stomped angrily into the hall and turned at the door of her room. “And when you’ll get an ulcer from your cooking,” she said, “so write a letter to the editor.” She banged the door of her room shut.
Laban went into his room and stuffed his books and newspaper into his briefcase. “She makes my whole life disagreeable,” he muttered. He put on his hat and coat and went downstairs. His first impulse had been to go to the restaurant, but his appetite was gone, so he went to the cafeteria on the corner of the avenue near the school. The quarrel had depressed him because he had counted on avoiding it. He ate half a sandwich, drank his coffee, and hurried off to school.
He went through his biology and geometry classes without paying much attention to the discussions, but his interest picked up in his Spanish class when Miss Moscowitz, who was also in his English class, came into the room. Laban nodded to her. She was a tall, thin young woman in her early thirties. Except for her glasses and a few pockmarks on her cheek, almost entirely hidden by the careful use of rouge, she wasn’t bad-looking. She and Laban were the shining lights of their English class, and it thrilled him to think how he would impress her with his letter. He debated with himself on the procedure of introducing the letter into the discussion. Should he ask Mr. Taub for permission to read the letter to the class, or should he wait for a favorable moment and surprise the class by reading the letter then? He decided to wait. When he thought how dramatic the scene would be, Laban’s excitement grew. The bell rang. He gathered up his books and, without waiting for Miss Moscowitz, walked toward his English room.
Mr. Taub began the lesson with a discussion on the element of fate in Romeo and Juliet, the play the class had just read. The class, adults and young people, both American and foreign-born, gave their opinions on the subject as Laban nervously sought for an opening. He was usually very active in this type of discussion, but he decided not to participate too much tonight in order to give his full attention to discovering a subject relevant to the letter. Miss Moscowitz was particularly effective in her answers. She analyzed the various elements of the plot with such impressive clarity that the class held its breath as she talked. Laban squirmed uncomfortably in his seat as the period grew shorter. He knew that he would feel miserable if he had not read his letter, especially since he had not even participated in the discussion. Mr. Taub brought up another question: “How did the lovers themselves contribute to their tragedy?”
Again Miss Moscowitz’s hand shot up. The teacher looked around, but no hands were raised so he nodded to her.
“Their passion was the cause of the tragedy,” said Miss Moscowitz, rising from her seat; but before she could go on, Laban Goldman’s hand was waving in the air.
“Ah, Mr. Goldman,” said the teacher, “we haven’t heard from you tonight. Suppose we let him go on, Miss Moscowitz?”
“Gladly,” she said, resuming her seat.
Laban rose and nodded to Miss Moscowitz. He tried to appear at ease, but his whole body was throbbing with excitement. He stepped into the aisle, thrust his right hand into his trouser pocket, and cleared his throat.
“A young woman like Miss Moscowitz should be complimented on her very clear and visionary answers. There was once a poet who quoted ‘Passions spin the plot,’ and Miss Moscowitz saw that this quotation is also true in this play. The youthful lovers, Romeo and Juliet, both of them were so overwhelmed and disturbed by their youthful ardor for each other that they could not discern or see clearly what their problems would be. This is not true only of these Shakespeare lovers, but also of all people in particular. When a man is young, he is carried away by his ardor and passion for a woman with the obvious and apparent result that he don’t take into consideration his wife’s real characteristics—whether she is suited to be his mate in mind as well as in the body. The result of this incongruence is very frequently tragedy or, nowadays, divorce. On this subject I would like to quote you some words of mine which were printed in a newspaper, The Brooklyn Eagle, today.”
He paused and looked at the teacher.
“Please do,” said Mr. Taub. The class buzzed with interest.
Laban’s hands trembled as he took the paper from his briefcase. He cleared his throat again.
To the Editor of The Brooklyn Eagle:
I would like to point out to your attention that there are many important problems that we are forgetting on account of the war. It is not my purpose or intention to disavow the war, but it is my purpose to say a few words on the subject of divorce.
New York State is back in the dark ages where this problem is concerned. Many a man of unstained reputation has his life filled with the darkness of tragedy because he will not allow his reputation to be defiled or soiled. I refer to adultery, which, outside of desertion, which takes too long, is the only practicable means of securing a divorce in this state. When will we become enlightened enough to learn that incompatibility “breeds contempt,” and that such a condition festers in the mind the way adultery festers in the body?
In view of this fact, there is only one conclusion—that we ought to have a law here to provide us with divorce on the grounds of incompatibility. I consider this to be Quod Erat Demonstrandum.
Laban Goldman
Brooklyn, January 28, 1942
Laban lowered his paper, and in the pause that ensued he said, “I don’t have to explain to the people in this class who are taking Geometry 1 or 2 wh
at this Latin quotation means.”
The class was deeply impressed. They applauded as Laban sat down. His legs trembled, but he was filled with the great happiness of triumph.
“Thank you, Mr. Goldman,” said Mr. Taub. “It pleases me to see that you are continuing your literary pursuits, and I should like the class to note that there was a definite Introduction, Body, and Conclusion in Mr. Goldman’s composition—that is to say—his letter. Without having seen the paper, I feel sure that there are three paragraphs in the letter he read to us. Isn’t that so, Mr. Goldman?”
“Absolutely!” said Laban. “I invite all to inspect the evidence.”
Miss Moscowitz’s hand shot up. The teacher nodded.
“I don’t know how the class feels, but I for one am honored to be in a class with a man of Mr. Goldman’s obvious experience and literary talent. I thought that the gist of the letter was definitely very excellent.”
The class applauded as she sat down. The bell rang, and school was over for the night.
Laban caught up with Miss Moscowitz in the hall and walked downstairs with her. “The bell rang too soon before I could reciprocate the way you felt about me,” he said.
“Oh, thank you,” said Miss Moscowitz, her face lighting with happiness. “That makes it mutual.”
“Without doubt,” said Laban, as they were continuing downstairs. He felt very good.
The students poured out into the street and began to disperse in many directions, but Laban did not feel like going home. The glow of triumph was warm within him, and he felt that he wanted to talk. He tipped his hat and said, “Miss Moscowitz, I realize I am a middle-aged man and you are a young woman, but I am young in my mind so I would like to continue our conversation. Would you care to accompany me to the cafeteria, we should have some coffee?”
“Gladly,” said Miss Moscowitz, “and I am not such a young woman. Besides, I get along better with a more mature man.”
Very much pleased, he took her arm and led her up the block to the cafeteria on the corner. Miss Moscowitz arranged the silverware and the paper napkins on the table while he went for the coffee and cake.
As they sipped their coffee, Laban felt twenty years younger, and a sense of gladness filled his heart. It seemed to him that his past was like a soiled garment which he had cast off. Now his vision was sharp and he saw things clearly. When he looked at Miss Moscowitz, he was surprised and pleased to see how pretty she was. Within him, a great torrent of words was fighting for release.
“You know, Miss Moscowitz—” he began.
“Please call me Ruth,” she said.
“Ah, Ruth, ever faithful in the Bible,” Laban mused. “My name is Laban.”
“Laban, that’s a distinguished name.”
“It’s also a biblical name. What I started out to say,” he went on, “was to tell you the background of my letter which they printed today.”
“Oh, please do, I am definitely interested.”
“Well, that letter is true and autobiographical,” he said impressively.
“Without meaning to be personal, how?” she asked.
“Well, I’ll tell you in a nutshell,” Laban said. “You are a woman of intelligence and you will understand. What I meant,” he went on, acknowledging her smile with a nod, “what I meant was that I was the main character in the letter.” He sought carefully for his words. “Like Romeo and Juliet, I was influenced by passion when I was a young man, and the result was I married a woman who was incompatible with my mind.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Miss Moscowitz.
Laban grew moody. “She has no interest in the subjects I’m interested in. She don’t read much and she don’t know the elementary facts about psychology and the world.”
Miss Moscowitz was silent.
“If I had married someone with my own interests when I was young,” he mused, “—someone like you, why I can assure you that this day I would be a writer. I had great dreams for writing, and with my experience and understanding of life, I can assure you that I would write some very fine books.”
“I believe you,” she said. “I really do.”
He sighed and looked out of the window.
Miss Moscowitz glanced over his shoulder and saw a short, stout woman with a red, angry face bearing down upon them. She held a cup of coffee in her hand and was trying to keep it from spilling as she pushed her way toward Laban’s table. A young woman was trying to restrain her. Miss Moscowitz sized up the situation at once.
“Mr. Goldman,” she said in a tight voice, “your wife is coming.”
He was startled and half rose, but Emma was already upon them.
“So this is night school!” she cried angrily, banging the half-spilled cup of coffee on the table. “This is education every night?”
“Momma, please,” begged Sylvia, “everyone is looking.”
“He is a married man, you housebreaker!” Emma shouted at Miss Moscowitz.
Miss Moscowitz rose. Her face had grown pale, and the pockmarks were quite visible.
“I can assure you that the only relationship that I have had with Mr. Goldman is purely platonic. He is a member of my English class,” she said with dignity.
“Big words,” sneered Emma.
“Be still,” Laban cried. He turned to Miss Moscowitz. “I apologize to you, Miss Moscowitz. This is my cross I bear,” he said bitterly.
“Poppa, please,” begged Sylvia.
Miss Moscowitz picked up her books.
“Wait,” called Laban, “I will pay your check.”
“Over my dead body,” cried Emma.
“That will not be necessary,” said Miss Moscowitz. “Good night.”
She paid her check and went out through the revolving door.
“You ignoramus, you,” shouted Laban, “look what you did!”
“Oh, he’s cursing me,” Emma wailed, bursting into tears.
“Oh, Poppa, this is so mortifying,” said Sylvia. “Everyone is staring at us.”
“Let them look,” he said. “Let them see what a man of sensitivity and understanding has to suffer because of incompatible ignorance.” He snatched up his briefcase, thrust his hat on his head, and strode over to the door. He tossed a coin on the counter and pushed through the revolving door into the street. Emma was still sobbing at the table, and Sylvia was trying to comfort her.
Laban turned at the corner and walked down the avenue in the direction away from his home. The good feeling was gone and a mood of depression settled upon him as he thought about the scene in the cafeteria. To his surprise he saw things clearly, more clearly than he ever had before. He thought about his life with quiet objectivity and he enjoyed the calmness that came to him as he did so. The events of the day flowed into his thoughts, and Laban remembered his triumph in the classroom. The feeling of depression lifted.
“Ah,” he sighed, as he walked along, “with my experience, what a book I could really write!”
1943
The Cost of Living
Winter had fled the city streets but Sam Tomashevsky’s face, when he stumbled into the back room of his grocery store, was a blizzard. Sura, sitting at the round table eating bread and a salted tomato, looked up in fright, and the tomato turned a deeper red. She gulped the bite she had bitten and with pudgy fist socked her chest to make it go down. The gesture already was one of mourning, for she knew from the wordless sight of him there was trouble.
“My God,” Sam croaked.
She screamed, making him shudder, and he fell wearily into a chair. Sura was standing, enraged and frightened.
“Speak, for God’s sake.”
“Next door,” Sam muttered.
“What happened next door?”—upping her voice.
“Comes a store!”
“What kind of a store?” The cry was piercing.
He waved his arms in rage. “A grocery comes next door.”
“Oi.” She bit her knuckle and sank down moaning. It could not have been worse.
They had, all winter, been haunted by the empty store. An Italian shoemaker had owned it for years, and then a streamlined shoe-repair shop had opened up next block where they had two men in red smocks hammering away in the window and everyone stopped to look. Pellegrino’s business had slackened off as if someone was shutting a faucet, and one day he had looked at his workbench, and when everything stopped jumping, it loomed up ugly and empty. All morning he had sat motionless, but in the afternoon he put down the hammer he had been clutching and got his jacket and an old darkened Panama hat a customer had never called for when he used to do hat cleaning and blocking; then he went into the neighborhood, asking among his former customers for work they might want done. He collected two pairs of shoes, a man’s brown-and-white ones for summertime and a pair of lady’s dancing slippers. At the same time, Sam found his own soles and heels had been worn paper thin for being so many hours on his feet—he could feel the cold floorboards under him as he walked—and that made three pairs altogether, which was what Mr. Pellegrino had that week—and another pair the week after. When the time came for him to pay next month’s rent he sold everything to a junkman and bought candy to peddle with in the streets, but after a while no one saw the shoemaker anymore, a stocky man with round eyeglasses and a bristling mustache, wearing a summer hat in wintertime.
When they tore up the counters and other fixtures and moved them out, when the store was empty except for the sink glowing in the rear, Sam would occasionally stand there at night, everyone on the block but him closed, peering into the window exuding darkness. Often while gazing through the dusty plate glass, which gave him back the image of a grocer gazing out, he felt as he had when he was a boy in Kamenets-Podolski and going—the three of them—to the river; they would, as they passed, swoop a frightened glance into a tall wooden house, eerily narrow, topped by a strange double-steepled roof, where there had once been a ghastly murder and now the place was haunted. Returning late, at times in early moonlight, they walked a distance away, speechless, listening to the ravenous silence of the house, room after room fallen into deeper stillness, and in the midmost a pit of churning quiet from which, if you thought about it, evil erupted. And so it seemed in the dark recesses of the empty store, where so many shoes had been leathered and hammered into life, and so many people had left something of themselves in the coming and going, that even in emptiness the store contained some memory of their presences, unspoken echoes in declining tiers, and that in a sense was what was so frightening. Afterwards when Sam went by the store, even in daylight he was afraid to look, and quickly walked past, as they had the haunted house when he was a boy.
The Complete Stories Page 7
