by Jack Cady
Lester pointed. "You lookin' at a damn fool. You wanta see a fool, you're seeing him."
The man walked away from the group on the corner. When he passed the parked truck he did not look up. A bruise along the side of his head looked more red then deeper black. The further he got from the men on the corner, the more he allowed himself to limp.
"Got his ass beat pretty good," Lester told the kid. "Name of Jolly. Must of got whupped on Sunday night. Just woke up in an alley. You're looking at a man what's been rolled."
"Could use a hospital."
Lester snorted. "He needs another whop alongside the head. Bat sense into him." Lester did not say that, except for Red Cross Hospital, and the basement of General, there was not a hospital in town that would treat a colored man. Lester started the engine. "Let's cruise on down to Lucky's. You ain't seen a hock shop 'til you seen Lucky's."
August 11th
Lucky's Store
Men standing on the corner; then came a bar painted flaking green, an alley, and Lucky's showy black and yellow store. First thing through the doorway, the kid found himself looking down a bright and narrow tunnel, five times wider than a bowling lane and as long. It looked like it ought to be named 'the trombone store', what with all the slip-horns along the walls. Other horns gleamed, trumpets, French horns, silver and golden saxophones, and ebony clarinets. Everything shone polished. The store had more lights than most, and every item so clean, that, if it held the least chance of sparkle, it sparkled.
When the kid looked upward he saw two stuffed chickens, and the big one looked more than a little nuts. It had its beak pushed forward like the toughest fighting rooster ever born, but it still looked chuckleheaded. The other chicken was small and plump, and had that, "I just laid this amazing-fine egg," sort of look.
" . . .found ourselves in the neighborhood," Lester said to Lucky. "The boy's never seen your store." To Wade's kid he said, "The girl chicken is Lola, the gentleman is Thomas."
"The best known couple in this neighborhood." Lucky leaned over the front showcase which held watches and pocket knives on bright maroon velvet. There were colors all over the place: royal blue, fire engine red. In the bright tunnel of the store, breezes from fans whipped all around.
At the far end, two people bent to their tasks. A young boy's dusky face leaned over a silver service, and his dusky hand polished. He was too far away for anybody to see him good. Also toward the back of the store, Mrs. Lucky sat at a small desk and worked in a ledger. She was lots younger than Lucky and prettier by a long shot. She wasn't tall, and she wasn't thin, but she was beautiful; a Jewish princess turned matron.
"Looks like our man Jolly sort-of bumped his nose." Lester said it tentative.
"He was defending a woman," Lucky said. "That's his story."
To the kid, he said. "It's not a little odd, but I don't think I ever heard your name."
"James." The kid almost whispered. "It's from the Bible." He felt like squirming, but didn't. "Can't say I care much for it."
"His momma calls him Jim." Lester looked toward the rear of the store. "Looks like you found a kid. Looks like Miz Esther's Howie."
"Howard," Lucky said. "He's doing two afternoons a week, then two hours a day after school starts." Lucky looked at Jim. " . . .takes a good bit to keep this place up." He chuckled. " . . . want a job?" He turned back to Lester.
The kid . . . not just a kid . . . because in this place he was 'Jim' and not just 'hey you', stood speechless and wanting. Did he want a job? Did he wanta work for Lucky? Were there fish in the river?
But it had sounded like a joke. Sure as anything he was about to make a fool of himself. On the other hand, he hadda. "Yes," he said. "I could use a job." He felt like tugging Lucky's sleeve, but managed to hold off.
Both men turned to him. They looked at each other, like they understood something they weren't gonna say; like Wade was the north end of a southbound horse, and his kid wanted better.
"I'll talk to your dad," Lucky said, and said it kind. "Maybe we can make something happen." He touched Jim on the shoulder, real friendly. He touched Lester the same. To Jim, that touch was altogether new, a little scary, also wonderful. He would learn that colored folk were not afraid to touch; did it all the time. It was a way of talking. It was just one more thing Lucky knew and everybody else didn't.
"You might give a mention to Jolly," Lucky told Lester. "He's talking mean, and Jolly isn't mean. He might be mouthing his way into something." Lucky sounded tentative, like he wanted to say more.
"Some folks have hell's own time learning. I'll say a word." Lester paused, waited.
"All these people dying," Lucky said. "It's like a curse, and nobody needs a curse to spread to Jackson St."
"Charlie's time was come. He got old." Lester paused again.
"We both understand Charlie." Lucky shrugged. "I just fret too much, and fretting can give a man a chill. Still, say a word to Jolly."
"It'll happen," Lester told him, then turned to Jim. "We gotta haul outta here."
"Auctions are wholesale operations," Lucky mused. "Jim could use retail experience. That's what I'll tell his dad."
And that is how Jim, on Wednesday before the Saturday warehouse sale, started working two afternoons a week for Lucky.
* * *
Jim stepped off the Broadway bus to walk up Jackson St. Cars parked along the street were two kinds, old and raggedy, or big and slick. Sunlight glanced off hoods of a '38 Cad, a '39 LaSalle, a '40 Packard gleaming above the dusty street. They sat mixed in with old pickups and cars, Studebakers, Willys, Plymouths, Fords and Chevs. One snazzy pickup, a '47 Hudson, looked businesslike.
Crud littered the gutters in front of some houses, and on some steps. Brick houses rose above the street, and front steps were mostly concrete slabs. Here and there a slim-and-silver can opener sat tucked between bricks, convenient for cracking beer cans toward the cool of evening. On one stoop an old woman sat, muttering to herself in the sun. On another stoop an old man. When Jim said "Howdy," they said nothing.
Next block, next block, sunlight and dust. On the corner just ahead, a group of men stood near a tavern with a sign, Sapphire Top Spot. Beyond them the front of Lucky's yellow-painted store stood washed in sunlight. Jim figured it might be the same men who had been there on the day of the dump run. He was at least ninety percent right.
He angled his way across the street and kind of swerved to avoid the group of men.
"You lost white boy? Running away from yo momma?" A mean voice from a man who looked more gray than black. His skin looked worn out, sort-of, and his forehead was wrinkled even if he didn't look old.
"Going to Lucky's," Jim whispered. "Going to work for Lucky."
"Stand there, boy. Don' move." The man turned to the other men. "Hebe sonovabitch. He's givin' away Howie's job."
"Leave it, Ozzie," one of the men said. "Just leave it." The man looked up and down the street, like a man checking for police.
"There's a day coming," Ozzie told the men, and Jim, "when no white boy is gonna walk this street." To Jim he said, "Boy, move your ass."
It was only a few steps to Lucky's store, and Jim stepped them without running, but just barely. When he got inside Lucky was all business.
"Retail is different. Two rules. You can't sell out of an empty wagon, so you need tons of stuff. And, second, if things look good the customer comes in often. That's the reason we clean." Lucky led Jim toward the back of the store. "Your dad has the brightest sales in town. For wholesale. We take it a step further."
They passed the desk where Mrs. Lucky worked, when she worked. Today the desk sat empty. A kid Jim's age sorted through a pile of clothes. "Howard will show you what to do." Lucky turned back to the front of the store. No introduction. Wise enough in the ways of kids to know that kids would work it out.
"We are making two piles," Howard said. "We will brush down and clean what is saleable. These are mostly coats." His diction was so precise he must have practiced.
His skin was Indian-color, and his nose was thin as his face. He looked like he weighed less than the stack of clothing.
"Jim," Jim said. "Tell me how you're judging. That stuff don't look so hot."
"It will," Howard told him. "In this store a man develops a magic touch. Have you ever stepped up to an ironing board?"
"I guess I'm gonna. How long have you worked here?"
"Long enough to know I'm wanted. If a man listens he can get ahead. I will get ahead." Howard looked toward the front of the store where Lucky dealt with a youngish woman. "You can learn the trade," Howard said, "and someday own your own store."
Mildred Samuels
In Lucky's mind, although he didn't really understand it at the time, Mildred Samuels became more than one person, and more than one ghost. Lucky knew lots of people who had relatives in Germany, and by now, Lucky's friends understood their relatives were dead. When war opened it had seemed that German Jews might come through the war, because it was believed German soldiers would have a hard time shooting people who spoke German. That idea fell apart as the war progressed. Gradually, people realized that no one had heard from relatives since late in 1941.
At first, Lucky could not even be sure that Mrs. Samuels was a Jew, or that she had been Polish, or German, or Russian. All Lucky knew, in the days before he planned a vacation, was that a woman had died. He had not even thought about her until her son committed suicide. When that happened Lucky felt vaguely guilty, although he might have excused himself. He was just as busy and preoccupied as everyone else. He would later feel compelled to learn everything about her. He would not learn everything, but would learn a lot.
* * *
American immigration quotas shrank all through the first half of the 20th century, so it turned out that Mrs. Mildred Samuels and her husband got to America just under the wire. They were exceptional in another respect. Their emigration from Poland was altogether different from what had been customary.
European immigration to the U. S. traditionally happened when a son or father left his native land for streets said to be lined with gold. What the men mostly found was work at low wages, and opportunities to use creative moxie, if they had any. In the case of Mildred Samuels history was reversed. She and her husband emigrated while her sons stayed home.
She was born in 1881 and married Jakob Samuelwicz, ten years her senior, in 1901. At her death in 1948 she was 67. Her son David was 46, her younger son, Isaac, was 44. Before marriage she had been a violinist of near professional ability. While many women gave public performances in those days, she did not because her father forbid her. After marriage, she would serve as teacher to her younger son. Isaac inherited her love of music. By the time he was twelve he was a musical prodigy of piano.
In 1936, with one son already an officer in the Polish Air Force, and a younger son establishing himself as a virtuoso musician and teacher of music, Mrs. Samuels and her husband Jakob (Jake) departed Warsaw for the United States. They had two reasons. Their main reason concerned rumors about Stalin, and further rumors about Russian weapons.
It is certain that the couple appealed to their sons to leave, and it's clear from later actions that the older son, David, chose to stand and fight against whatever destiny brought. The younger son Isaac doubtless refused because he was 32 years old and assured of a brilliant concert career.
Quite likely the sons argued. They probably told their parents that rumors of Russia's increase in weapons seemed a thin excuse for leaving a prosperous way of life. And, it's equally likely that the parents replied, "Thin, unless one is Polish."
Poland lay surrounded by Russia to the east, Germany and Austria to the west, and Czechoslovakia to the south. For all of its eleven centuries Poland's borders had been provisional. During most of the 19th century it had not even existed as a nation, having been divided up by Europe's superpowers.
If one were not only a Pole, but Jew, and if one heard rumblings from Russia while also hearing rumblings from Germany, it was time to look toward America.
Jakob Samuelwicz was a moderately successful merchant, no intellectual, but no fool. He knew how to survive. He also knew that there was not a country in all of Europe that, for ten centuries, had not at one time or other, held pogroms. If one was a Jew in Europe there had been no good place, although Poland was the best of an historically bad lot. Jews originally came to Poland after being kicked out of Spain in the late 15th century. Samuelwicz could trace his family through seven generations in Poland. As a Pole, it took a lot of threat to pry Jakob from his native land.
The couple's second reason for emigration was the promise of economic security. Jakob had an uncle in Louisville who owned a large dry cleaning business. The uncle had neither chick nor child, and his wife had died tubercular. He was an old and lonely man in a city where most Polish Jews were of the peasantry, and German Jews were snooty.
It seemed to Jakob that if he came to America he would quickly learn, and someday inherit, the dry cleaning business. That actually happened. He prospered, and could soon afford the small house on Bardstown Road. The purchase was a great act of faith, because most European Jews rented. They did not buy because governments of Europe, when financially hard up, had routinely confiscated Jewish property.
When Jakob died of age and overwork in '43, Mildred was forced to sell the business. She was 62 and alone, but with savings and money from sale of the business. She became a thin and quiet woman, apparently friendless, who was only seen when walking to the grocery. When her two sons managed to get to the States, even though illegally, one can only hope that for Mildred Samuels it was like a sunrise.
Because of the tumult and terror that had run worldwide before Stalin and Hitler, Mildred Samuels would indeed come to represent many, many ghosts. And her sons would come to represent many more.
Saturday, August 16th
Warehouse Auction Daytime
Segregation in Louisville was one doomed duck, although Louisville didn't know it. Lots of white Louisvillians hardly understood that segregation existed. Real estate salesmen knew that sales in some parts of the city could not be made to Jews, but even real estate people did not think of restrictive covenants (still in force although the U. S. Supreme Court had just ruled otherwise) as segregation.
No preacher thought of Jews as segregated. Preachers only preached that Jews were clannish. And, when it came to colored folk, whites could point to a few colored living most anywhere in town. Some colored even received their mail at the very best addresses.
That happened in the old south because the big house with white folk sat out front, watching over the street. Servant quarters for colored watched over the back alley. Same address.
Louisville did know that Mr. Barry Bingham owned The Louisville Courier-Journal and The Louisville Times. In the matter of integration both papers approved, while standing on the side of the angels; where also, at least in that matter, stood Mr. Barry Bingham. In addition, Louisville was uneasily aware of a large and annoying number of white liberals (generally called 'communists') who were pledged to bring about change. They had a history going back as far as the 1920s. Mr. Barry Bingham, and the papers, mistrusted communists; and sort-of rode the fence when it came to unions.
Louisville also knew that the official stance of official Louisville was, "Integration will come someday, but not just yet. It's a little too early. It needs to come gradual. Today is not the time." Thus, the NAACP wanted matters settled yesterday, while official Louisville wanted 'day after tomorrow'. Both sides, mostly, remained polite.
Charlie Weaver, or Charlie Weaver's ghost, understood the official position. He also understood the wants of the NAACP. Charlie was a generous man according to his lights, although most of his lights had been lit back in the 19th century.
As a gentlemen from an elder time, and good-hearted, he would caution against haste; but would do so with sympathy. He would also point out that his auction house always held to liberal standards. He even hired one colore
d gentleman, and that gentleman had free run of the place, i.e. Lester could go to the can like anybody else.
Because, for most colored folk segregation meant, among other things, there was no place to pee. White restaurants and lunch counters were strictly white, though during the war a few exceptions showed up. There were no colored restrooms in department stores. Colored gents and ladies could not try on clothing to see if it fit or looked nice.
Public parks were strictly off-limits, except in Chickasaw Park for colored, as were swimming pools. Fountaine Ferry Amusement Park, where any kid would want to go, admitted only whites, although it sat near an area of prosperous colored.
On the flip side, buses were not segregated and anybody could sit anywhere. Colored folk had the vote and could sometimes swing elections. Problem was, though, that while a man could eat or smoke on a bus he couldn't pee; neither there nor in a poll booth.
Which is why the day started poorly. When he was at Wade's store Lester went to the john like everybody else. At the warehouse he didn't. Maybe he might, but the auction crew was not beloved by warehousemen. Why take a chance on crossing a warehouse foreman? The day turned into an embarrassment when a cop caught Lester peeing behind a truck door.
The cop knew that men have done this since the invention of truck doors. Before that, men peed behind their wagons. Colored men, white men, Indians; it was a sacred tradition, though, traditionally a lot of Indians didn't give a sniff, or even half-a-parsnip, and peed anywhere. The cop had nothing else to do, except be a Louisville cop: thus worthy of explanation.
Mr. Colonel Carl Heustis was Chief of Police, conservative, but running a pretty good force. He had white officers and a few colored, and the colored cops could even arrest a white man if need be: which didn't happen, since they patrolled only colored areas. Still, the fact that they could was different from most cities of the south.
