Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories

by Allen Hoffman

  “And so you were saved,” I conclude.

  “Yes,” he answers, “thank God.”

  And for this evening we are finished. How can we go beyond the righteous? We stand a while, quiet and reflective. Mr. Isaacson breaks the silence.

  “Regards to the family.”

  “Thank you, regards to Mrs. Isaacson.”

  “Good night.”

  I watch Mr. Isaacson cross the street and turn to retrace my steps down Ninety-first Street past the shtibl staircase crowding onto the silent sidewalk. It is warm and humid. As I cross Broadway I hear a faint rumbling that might be mistaken for a distant sound from the heavens above, if beneath, the subway, hot and empty, weren’t pursuing its predetermined course.

  I turn onto my street and see a squat, heavy-limbed figure moving deliberately through the pink light showering down upon him. The page has been learned for the day. Why hurry? A page a day.

  I am by his side.

  “Are you still fasting?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “They were for you.”

  “Yes, thank you. The Three Weeks, a very difficult period,” I explain.

  “Yeah, but we’ll make it.”

  “Yes,” I answer. And I open the door for the nectarine man because we’ll make it, and not to would be... ugly as sin.

  Hymie the Torch

  ALTHOUGH people lead normal lives, there are no normal people. This is understood by people who once led normal lives and by no one else. No corporation, government, or religious group can insure safe handling in transit. You take your chances.

  Hymie Grosbart led a normal life. He drove the appropriate direction in one-way streets; he paid when he was served; he was an officer of the temple. All the while, he was an incipient arsonist. That an officer of the temple should be an incipient arsonist is not so surprising. There is something about fire that tickles the Jewish soul. Moses had his burning bush, the wandering Jews their pillar of fire, Elijah his fiery bolt from heaven, the Maccabees their twinkling menorah, and Hymie Grosbart his dancing flame of havdalah.

  Hymie had discovered that thrill as a child. After the sun set on Saturday, the family gathered in the kitchen to hear havdalah, the ceremony ending the Sabbath. His father blessed the cup, blessed the spices, and blessed the fire. Hymie always asked to hold the tall, braided candle. When the ceremony was over, his father would take the cup, pour a little schnapps onto the slate counter, and light it. The shimmering vapors clothed in flame leaped above their tremulous disappearing base. Hymie loved it.

  All right, fire tickles all Jewish souls. So what if it positively regaled Hymie’s? He still had to go upstairs, brush his teeth, put on his pajamas, and go to bed. Other children dragged sugar-plum fairies onto the pillow of imagination. What’s so harmful that Hymie had a dancing flame?

  He was a normal kid. Picked his nose as much as most, teased his sister less, burned more leaves, and always asked for vanilla instead of chocolate. Pleasant, polite, but not talkative, he made it to high school and assumed that he was receiving an education. On Saturday nights, he himself lit the dancing flame. Of course he loved its magic. Magic that released energy locked inside Creation. That wasn’t the only energy. On Saturday nights he also discovered kissing girls, drinking beer, and playing cards. He grew up.

  When graduation approached, Hymie had no definite plans. College was mentioned. Hymie’s cousin in law school advised it. A trade was talked about, too, but all discussion ended when Sukenik, a bachelor cousin who often joined the family for holidays, offered to take Hymie into his successful hardware store to “teach him the business.” The implication — inheritance — was clear, and the offer was accepted. Hymie had always liked the cousin, a small, thin man who channeled great stores of nervous energy into his business. Hymie wasn’t lazy either. Soon, he too knew the entire stock and could reorder without having to examine the dense array of shovels, brooms, hammers, and fly swatters that shrouded the surfaces of Sukenik Sales. His contributions did not go unappreciated. Over Hymie’s objections, Grosbart was added to the store’s name, and Sukenik and Grosbart — S & G, as it was called — became one of the leading firms in town.

  Aunts suddenly became interested in marrying their nieces to Hymie. He rejected the wealthier, high-powered matches and chose Sarah, an attractive and unassuming girl. They bought a spacious old home in the neighborhood and promptly insured it along with Hymie’s life against any untoward event. The temple chose Hymie as vice-president. He sat on the stage next to the president. His children sat on his lap and marveled at the large, gold-fringed American flag that stood next to their father’s great chair. Poker Mondays, folks Wednesdays, temple board Thursdays. A dish of vanilla ice cream after havdalah.

  The Depression did not affect Hymie immediately. With his money in bonds, he was not hurt by the stock-market crash. Not financially, but he saw the haunted, fear-stricken eyes. He extended credit where he could, but for those who had been wiped out in the precipitous, swift collapse, there wasn’t much that anyone could do. As the Depression ground on, smaller businesses failed, but there was business enough for the few that survived. Few survived better than S & G.

  One night, driving home, Hymie noticed a neighbor walking. Shapiro’s herky-jerky gait caught his eye. Hymie pulled up at the curb and waited for his friend to catch up. Hymie rolled down the window and called to him, but not until he honked the horn did the distracted man realize that anyone had stopped for him. Hymie asked whether something was wrong.

  “Wrong?” Shapiro said, as if Hymie had made the greatest understatement of all time. Hymie smiled his shy, trusting smile; Shapiro opened the door and slid into the seat next to Hymie.

  “Wrong?” Morris Shapiro repeated, shaking his head, and he began to tell Hymie just how wrong things were. Shapiro had owned a successful camera store, Federal Photo Supply, but in the Depression what was there to photograph? Men standing on street corners? Thousands of dollars’ worth of cameras in stock, a good building, and no sales. Shapiro had believed that the Depression couldn’t go on. Everyone had believed that it couldn’t go on, but it had. So had his mortgage payments on the building and he stood to lose everything. A lifetime of work. What choice did he have? To stand back and watch thirty years go down the drain like a dirty bath? He couldn’t do that! What could he do? He had a wife and kids, didn’t he? It wasn’t his Depression. He didn’t want it. He didn’t cause it. What did he have left? One thing, insurance. Of course, he knew it was wrong, but what choice was there? He called the “burner.”

  “Burner?” Hymie inquired gently.

  “Yeah, for a price, he burns your place down. But listen to this. I make up my mind. I get in touch, make a deal. I get the stuff, set everything up for tonight, and I just got a call. The son of a bitch is in jail. He got himself arrested this afternoon. If that don’t beat all!”

  “Hmmm,” Hymie said.

  “And the insurance expires tomorrow. If that don’t beat all!” Shapiro called out in amazement.

  A strange thirsting itch worked deep in Hymie’s throat.

  “What stuff did you get?” he asked softly.

  WHAT was done first as a favor for a distraught friend developed into something more as the Depression worsened. When normally honest men become criminals, they crave someone who is discreet. But, above all, even in the terminal act of their commercial careers, they remain businessmen. Results! The warehouse must burn fast. The drugstore must burn completely. The gutted restaurant must contain no evidence of its unnatural destruction. And the more humane did not want their self-inflicted flames to consume their neighbors. God forbid that lives should be lost and innocent blood be on their hands along with the insurance benefits. In short, they wanted an expert. They found him.

  At first a few came. Shapiro must have mentioned it. Hymie never did. Then others, until in no time almost every fire downtown belonged to Hymie. Anyone who needed a burner naturally thought of Hymie, Hymie the Torch. No more poker, no
more temple board, hardly time for the folks. Only the vanilla ice cream remained. He needed no one and he trusted no one as his movements became unaccountable. For the first few arsons, Hymie stayed to view the illuminating fruits of his labors. His eyes sparkled as the first bloom of flame poked through its nurturing shell. His soul laughed as the entire fiery bouquet burst forth with its luminous petals, showering the building in sparks. The luxury ceased as Hymie the Torch became better known. Eventually, his house came under surveillance and every night he was followed, but Hymie always found a way. When Hymie the Torch took on a contract, the sky glowed before morning.

  Until the arson squad realized that the Torch never flamed on the Sabbath, Hymie was followed to the temple and back on Friday nights. The detectives waited respectfully across the street in their black Chevrolets. Hymie retained his generous nature. Some of the older, poorer congregants lived in dark tenements on streets that were no longer safe. With his detectives in tow, Hymie escorted them home, all enjoying the protective scrutiny of the city’s finest. It was the only night of the week that Sarah did not worry. Not that she ever discussed his new activity with him. Nothing was said, but she knew, and to tell the truth, she was confused. The more notorious her husband’s reputation, the kinder and more thoughtful he became.

  Not everyone found Hymie so appealing. Those who sought him at night spurned him in the morning. Hymie knew more than their sins. He knew their fears and weaknesses. He was the repository of shrouded voices they couldn’t silence. Exhausted and fearful, with red, sleepless eyes, they had come to him in their shame. Refugees cast forth from a secure land onto a beach of chaos where tides of disintegration threatened to inundate them. The only means of staying afloat was that relic from a world when risk was shared — their insurance. By destroying that last vestige of trust they could cling to their homes as their businesses were swept away in a sea of flames. They did it in the dark of night when shadows sleep and stars shine silently. But they could not do it alone. They needed a torch. By night they begged Hymie; by day they despised him. “When Hymie the Torch smiles, insurance companies sit shivah,” they smirked. And what was in them a virtue in him was a vice. “What choice did we have? Could we let our children go homeless and starve? That he, a rich man, should do such a thing is a scandal!”

  How did Hymie react? Not at all. He became more religious. Hymie knew that there were many more learned than he, but he felt that few better appreciated the Sabbath. For him the Sabbath was perfect peace. Who but a master of fire could deeply appreciate a flame-free respite from mastery over Creation? Hymie’s fingers did not touch a match nor flip a switch. At the Sabbath’s conclusion, when the havdalah candle burned in braided flame and he chanted, “Blessed art Thou O Lord, King of the universe, Who distinguishes between holy and profane,” Hymie felt that he understood better than anyone else. Not that Hymie was holier, but who was more profane Sunday through Friday than Hymie the Torch?

  When funds were needed in the community, he was never forgotten. Hymie the Torch might not be welcome on the eastern wall next to the flag, but his checks were always accepted. Checking accounts know no scandal — only insolvency, and Hymie was far from that.

  From his after-hours proceeds Hymie filled a safe-deposit box with cash. Although he didn’t like to think about it, he knew that he might need it. The business could run without him, but if he had to become a guest of the state, well, at least Sarah and the children would be well fixed.

  Hymie was careful and Hymie was patient. He didn’t take every job that came along. If something wasn’t right, or contained a hint of not being right, he wouldn’t touch it. No one was ever hurt in his fires; he feared that more than jail. And he never promised specific dates. If someone was in a hurry, Hymie wasn’t his man. There were some close calls, but his luck held.

  The authorities never bothered Hymie, not in person. Well, almost never, and even then it wasn’t official. Once a peppery battalion chief came into the store and asked to see Hymie. Hymie asked him what he wanted.

  “My name’s Bannion. I’m a fireman and I just wanted to see the guy who’s burning the city to the ground!”

  It was pugnacious, but not without respect. Hymie didn’t expect the firemen to be pleased with his actions. After all, they had a job to do, too; he just nodded.

  “You’re good, Hymie, but we’ll meet again.”

  Hymie, neither acknowledging nor denying, just smiled.

  The battalion chief turned to leave, then stopped with a wave of his hand. He motioned to all of S & G and asked in quiet wonderment, “Why, Hymie? Why?”

  Why? Well, some things just can’t be avoided. Hymie never claimed it was right, but if he, Hymie, didn’t do it, someone else would. Someone not nearly as good. Why? To tell the truth, because Hymie loved doing it. You can’t beat that for motivation.

  The economy improved. Over the years there were fewer and fewer requests for his services. By the end of the decade, his skills lay dormant, but his memory was active and, of course, the dancing flame of havdalah — Hymie’s own miniature burning bush — glowed weekly. He was philosophical — he wasn’t as young as he used to be. Night entries, dark stairwells, exiting through windows. Fire was a young man’s game. No, he was no youngster; his children had married. A son and son-in-law were in business with him now. No regrets. They had been good years.

  Hymie had just become a grandfather when Pearl Harbor was attacked. His son and son-in-law were drafted, and Hymie was kept busy with the store. There was a great demand for everything S & G could stock. There could be no question of burning anything now; it wouldn’t have been patriotic. And Hymie was a patriot; while the havdalah flame danced, Hymie uttered a special prayer that in the coming week God should protect all the soldiers and sailors.

  When the war ended, his children returned. His son limped, but thank God it wasn’t too bad, and the family was together. The boys returned to S & G and together they branched into manufacturing. The company rapidly expanded from a single prosperous store into a large chain that sold many items of its own manufacture. Hymie still had the final say, but he nearly always agreed with his young partners.

  Others who had previously envied Hymie for his wealth now envied him for something else. He got along so well with his children, and not just in the business. The families all lived in the same neighborhood. The younger ones often came to Hymie for Sabbath afternoons. Often after havdalah, the young couples would go downtown to take in a picture show while the grandparents did the babysitting.

  One Saturday night, however, Hymie’s daughter didn’t feel well. Why didn’t Hymie and Sarah go with her brother and sister-in-law instead? Mom might enjoy it, the son urged. Hymie had no desire to go. It had been years since he had seen a movie, but Sarah seemed intrigued by the idea. Certainly she was flattered by the invitation. “Well, if your father wants to....”

  So Hymie went to the movies. Under the brilliant marquee’s dazzling bulbs and in front of the brightly lit shop windows that sent colored light cascading past elegantly clothed mannequins, Hymie and Sarah felt like tourists from a small town. The early show let out; the line surged forward. Hymie and his wife were impressed by the opulent velvet hangings that framed the lobby; things had changed.

  The lights dimmed, the plush curtain parted, the crowd quieted, the screen came to life with a cavalcade of the news. Well, thought Hymie with satisfaction as the familiar booming, resonant voice launched into its documentary accompaniment, at least some things haven’t changed: lively and upbeat — a beauty contest; heraldic — a visiting dignitary; respectful — a centenarian Confederate veteran’s funeral; celebratory — the annual Pennsylvania Dutch Apple Butter Festival. The music then switched to stark chords and the announcer’s voice became grave and ominous as he intoned, “Recently obtained enemy films show the savage horrors suffered by civilians in the last war.”

  Hymie sat up and quit munching popcorn. The screen showed scenes of a Nazi concentration camp: the lon
g line of bewildered arrivals, the gas chambers, the stacks of shoes, the mountains of corpses. And the thing that pierced Hymie most deeply — the flames, the bright flashing flames from the chimneys of the crematoria. As suddenly as it had appeared, it disappeared, giving way to a bouncy story about ladies’ fashions.

  The war had been over for more than a year and the unbelievable facts had trickled slowly into everyone’s consciousness until they were undeniable. Although, even then, who could really believe that it had happened? Never had he seen pictures! Hymie sat, refusing to believe. No, no — no! He wanted to scream, but he just sat there staring silently with everyone else as the feature came on — Fred Astaire began to dance.

  Driving home, no one mentioned the concentration camp, but even Fred Astaire’s magic feet had not tapped it out of their minds. When Sarah and Hymie got out of the car, they thanked the children for a lovely evening.

  Hymie waited for Sarah to fall asleep. Pajama-clad, in the kitchen, he burned through a book of matches. Brilliant phosphorous burst, steady crawling, consuming white flame, curled black ashes. One after another. With every one, his bitter anger struggled to prove possession. In the morning he went about his business as usual.

  Life went on as before until a year later a grandchild became ill. Fitfully gasping for air, the child lay in an oxygen tent. Hymie joined the family vigil at the child’s bedside. The nurses continuously reminded them not to smoke because of the highly flammable oxygen that was flowing with a hissing swish through the rubber hose attached to the large indestructible metal cylinders. The smallest spark, they explained, could be disastrous. They had no idea who Hymie was.