Have I Got a Story for You

by Ezra Glinter

  At age sixteen Hamer-Jacklyn began a career as an actress and singer in Toronto’s Yiddish theater. Her acting career took her to New York, where she married, had a son and eventually divorced. Her literary career began at age thirty-four with the publication of a story titled “A Shop Girl” in the newspaper Der tog (The Day). She continued to write for many Yiddish periodicals, including the Forward, and published several collections of stories.

  “Compatriots” appeared in the Forward on August 3, 1952, and was included two years later in her collection Shtamn un tsvaygn (Roots and Branches). It tells the story of two older men, both of whom were once involved in their landsmanshaft—a social and mutual-aid society based on common geographical origin—but whose lives have since diverged, and who now find themselves longing for their younger years.

  Appropriately enough, the story appeared on the same page of the newspaper as a column titled “Question and Answers About Social Security.”

  Compatriots

  (AUGUST 3, 1952)

  Translated by Rose Waldman

  AARON KAUFMAN PACED tensely around his house. He absolutely could not decide what to do. Should he go to tonight’s fiftieth-anniversary banquet for the Zlotkover Society or not? Well, could he just not go? He’d built this society, after all! Hadn’t he given fifty of his eighty-six years to his Zlotkover compatriots? And he’d even been president for a quarter century. It was true, he’d derived a lot of satisfaction from his compatriots, but he’d also suffered plenty of anguish. The last few years were becoming even worse. The language less Jewish, his compatriots ever more like gentiles. They hadn’t even come by to give his deceased wife her final honor. Only a handful had come.

  So many times he’d made the decision not to attend the gatherings. He’d resolve that when the usual postcard arrived, inviting “Dear Sisters and Brothers” to the meetings, he’d throw the postcard out and turn his back on their English-language invitations—he wouldn’t go! But later—he could never quite account for how it happened, couldn’t remember at all—he would somehow find himself at the society’s gathering. Sitting there in a corner as if at a stranger’s wedding, he would feel agitated and nostalgic for his past leadership, for when he was young, active, and standing at the helm. He’d been the president, and only Yiddish was spoken.

  He glanced at a Yiddish newspaper and tried to read the editorial, but his brain couldn’t handle it. He began reading a lighter article, but then realized that once again his mind had wandered to thoughts of his compatriots, today’s fiftieth anniversary, and the wonderful past . . . The newspaper slipped out of his fingers. His eyes gazed into the distance, and a curtain suddenly seemed to open on a time fifty years ago. He saw himself as a naïve eighteen-year-old in New York. He’d fled his small Polish town right after a pogrom, then underwent all the difficulties of a greenhorn immigrant. Yet difficult as it was, how could it compare with the hellish terror of pogroms and the constant struggle for a piece of bread? Still, he couldn’t help but feel nostalgia for his hometown, wistful for the dear memories of his childhood years.

  In New York he’d learned a skill: he became a “cloak operator.” 25 He became friendly with a “finisher” in the shop, the beautiful black-eyed Clara, and they soon fell in love. Together they fought for the union and helped organize the shop. Later they went on strike and marched on the picket line together, went to lectures, listened to enlightening words from Morris Hillquit, 26 Joseph Barondess, 27 and Ab. Cahan. 28 A year later he married his Clara and together they had a happy life. Soon after their wedding, he began organizing the society. His humble home on Broome Street became home to every greenhorn compatriot. The newcomer would stay there until Aaron found him a job and a home, until he ungreened himself and become a bit of a mentsch. 29 It was at Aaron’s home on Broome Street that the first gathering for the founding of the Zlotkover Society was held. Two years later, Aaron’s old friend from home, Chaim Brikman, arrived. Chaim became Aaron’s right-hand man. They both worked hard to advance the society, to make it stronger and better. When Aaron Kaufman became president, Chaim became the secretary, and both invested a great deal. They visited the homes of their compatriots, called and demanded dues, organized picnics and “package parties,” collected money, sent matzos for Passover back to Zlotkov, sent money for the ill and for orphans. And if it happened that one of the compatriots had begun to “forget” his wife and children from back home, Aaron and Chaim reminded him. Often they’d send boat fare to those wives and children and apologized and made peace within the broken family.

  Aaron had four children, but who had the time to devote to them? His wife Clara raised them and performed all the household duties while he led the society. With his own eyes, Aaron lived to see a tiny handful of compatriots grow into a large organization that numbered more than four hundred individuals.

  Later his dear friend Chaim Brikman married an American girl, and they rode off to the far West. He bought a piece of land and so transformed a long-held dream into reality—he became a farmer. In the beginning, Aaron would receive letters often, and so he knew that things were all right. A child was born, and then another. But gradually the correspondence dwindled down to nothing. Only to the big Society celebrations did Chaim send a check, and so they all knew that Chaim had lucked out and had become a wealthy farmer.

  Aaron didn’t begrudge his friend’s riches; he was happy for him with all his heart. The only thing that bothered him was that he’d lost such a dear brother and dedicated activist.

  With the passing years, many of the compatriots worked their way up. From lowly workers they became shop owners. From peddlers, businessmen making their own deals. Aaron Kaufman, too, had the opportunity to become partners with a fellow countryman in a tailor shop. But he turned down the chance because he felt he’d be betraying his other compatriots. Who would lead the society if he were to abandon it to manage a shop, with all of its business deals and headaches? And when his wife argued that other compatriots were doing exactly that, he explained to her that they weren’t presidents, merely soldiers, and often not even that. Someone had to be on the alert and protect the society.

  Indeed, Aaron protected it staunchly. He guarded even the Yiddish language with watchful eyes, refusing to allow any speeches in English. And if a fellow asked a question in English, Aaron quickly cried out, “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Here we understand only Yiddish!”

  If the fellow insisted, Aaron explained to him: Why speak a poor English if he could speak a rich Yiddish? True, one was supposed to learn English, but that was for the outside world. Here, it was their hometown. In Zlotkov people speak Yiddish, mameloshn. 30 And here it was Zlotkov . . .

  Later the changing of names began. Spitalnik became Mr. Spit; Edelman turned into Adel. And when Aaron Kaufman’s presidency was through, there suddenly arose a jumble of half Yiddish, half English. He protested, shouted, banged on the table. His compatriots reminded him that his own two sons—one a doctor, the other an engineer—had also shortened their names from Kaufman to Kay. And so, he was forced to bite his lip and remain silent.

  Years flew by. Through watery eyes and with a heart heavy, Aaron Kaufman watched his society become some sort of “lodge.” The older compatriots dispersed, un-greened, and set out on other paths. Many died, and the young ones seemed foreign, distant, impossible to reach. A new world, a new flavor. The old ones kept slipping away somehow, moving ever farther and becoming ever stranger.

  So he’d come to the gatherings sometimes, mingle, gaze at the president’s chair where he once sat and ruled with a firm hand. And near him had been seated, like ministers, the society officials: the secretary, the “hospitality” chair, the recording secretary. Today, though, they were strange chairs, strange people. The old ones had died, and even those who were still alive were dead to the former Zlotkov Society.

  Thoughts of nothingness crawled through his mind. Oy, he thought, sighing, if only his wife were still alive, he’d have someone
to talk to. But no, he was alone. The house was dark. Night had fallen a long time ago, but he had not yet put on a light.

  Aaron got up from his chair and flicked the switch. The room flooded with light. He squinted against the brightness, walked past a mirror and remained standing there. Gray hair. Not too long ago, it seemed to him, he had a head full of black curly hair, a tall svelte figure, sparkling brown eyes. He was still tall, only a bit skinnier now. The eyes, he thought, were the same, but covered with glasses that concealed deep wrinkles. He carelessly slipped on his coat. Perhaps he’d step into the theater, or visit the children. No, he would not go to his children. They always went away on Saturday and were never home.

  And Aaron Kaufman decided he’d take a stroll.

  The air was pleasant, refreshing. He walked and he walked and suddenly found himself near the entrance of the large hall where the banquet was taking place. Perhaps he should go in? He’d certainly find many familiar faces . . . surely. No small thing, a society’s fifty-year existence!

  He went in. A large, brightly lit hall. The music played. Such a festive crowd. It looked cheerful. Young couples were dancing odd, offbeat dances. What a strange crowd this was. No one familiar. Such youth! Perhaps he’d stepped into the wrong place? Rumba music. Beating on castanets. Young people twirling wantonly. No! This could not be the Zlotkov Society. He’d stumbled into a dance hall among young couples.

  “Hey. Look out, mister.”

  Aaron apologized.

  Excuse me. Was this his society? Sure, sure, certainly; right there in the corner he recognized his compatriots. Just a few. What a foreign, motley crowd . . .

  “Today we’ll be awarding a prize for the best rumba dance!” a blond young man announced.

  He looked like a complete sheygets, 31 Aaron thought. Who was he? An English “entertainer,” most likely.

  All at once Aaron felt someone’s hands covering his eyes. “Guess who?” the man said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  “Well, really, how should I know?”

  The voice sounded familiar, but Aaron couldn’t remember where he’d heard it before.

  “You give up? Huh?”

  “I don’t know,” Aaron said.

  “All right. Look.”

  Aaron turned and saw a tall elderly man with a wide hat, like a cowboy’s. A wrinkled face, browned by the sun. Trembling, Aaron cried out, “Chaim Brikman!”

  They hugged each other, fell upon each other’s shoulders, and kissed like two long lost brothers.

  “Heavens, Brikman, what brings you here? You look like a baron!”

  “So if I’m a baron, you shouldn’t be calling me Brikman, but Mr. Brick.”

  “Oh, you too?” Aaron asked, astonishment fixing him to the spot.

  “No, not me too. Only my children.”

  “Mine too,” Aaron reassured him. “Somehow, it was as if my heart was telling me to come here today,” he marveled. “Tell me, good brother, what brought you here to the Zlotkover compatriots after so many years?”

  “I missed it. All those old memories . . . I saved up a lot of money, my friend, but I lost my wife. The children scattered, got married to shiksas. 32 Didn’t want to live on the farm. And when they come to visit, they’re alien to me. I’m an old Jew, deserted on a rich estate. I gnaw away at the large fields and drink from the oil spring. It all became too boring, so I sold it all. What else should I have done? Find an old gentile woman? I want to be back among Jews. Among our own. Perhaps I’ll get to know a younger woman here . . .”

  “I lost my wife too,” Aaron said sadly. “I have four married children, may they be healthy, grandchildren, I’m proud of them, but I’m lonely, I’m alone.”

  “You aren’t alone. You’re with your compatriots and with memories of Zlotkov. You meet, spend time together, reminisce about how it was back home. This is New York, a melting pot, there are places to go. I was alone, with the empty field and a big empty house. But you, you have all of Zlotkov here. I envy you.”

  “Nah, this isn’t the same society you remember. Forty years have passed since you left, Chaim. Go ahead, look around and tell me if you recognize anyone.”

  Chaim craned his neck, carefully scrutinizing the faces of the people around him, and paused at a pretty middle-aged woman. “There’s Chanaleh, Moshe Gittel’s,” he said, “the shoemaker’s daughter.”

  “No. That’s not her. That’s Moshe Gittel the shoemaker’s grand-daughter!”

  “I could have sworn it was Chanaleh.”

  “No. It’s Chanaleh’s daughter.”

  He looked around again, then paused for a longer time when he spotted an elderly man. Confidently, he said, “That’s Shmuel Berel the water carrier’s son, Moshe!”

  “Wrong! It’s Shmuel Berel the water carrier’s grandchild. Asher is his name.”

  Chaim Brikman remained standing dumbfounded. After a minute he said, pleased, “Well, we haven’t aged as much, especially me.”

  “Yes, my friend, we’ve changed too. Become gray. A bit wrinkled. A bit stooped . . . Well, you definitely look more vigorous than me.”

  “I still feel young. Strong and healthy. You have to understand, I lived out on the field, in the free air . . . But I’m not going back again. I already sold everything and came here to New York to settle down. To be with old friends and compatriots. And you, especially. I’ve missed you. And I want to live among Jews.” He suddenly became quiet, lost in thought. Then he asked, “How long since your wife died?”

  “Two years now.”

  “You’re alone?”

  “Yes. Alone.”

  The commotion and din grew. It was difficult to hear each other’s words.

  “Why shouldn’t a young man like you look for a decent woman to marry?”

  “A young man? Me?” Aaron Kaufman gaped at him, astonished.

  “Well, if you count all the years, it won’t work. You’ve taken an early old age upon yourself,” Brikman shouted into his friend’s ear.

  All at once, it turned quiet. The blowing of the saxophones and beating of the drums stopped.

  Chaim Brikman stood up and put on his cowboy hat, drawing everyone’s attention. They stared at him with curiosity. Some of the older compatriots recognized him, and soon a circle had formed around the cowboy. They barraged him with questions, and Brikman gladly regaled them with descriptions of the far West, of a farmer’s life, and how you discover a gusher. He defined the word: it meant an “oil well.”

  Suddenly, there was a bang on the drum. The blond young man announced through the microphone that they’d now be playing the new Spanish rumba and prizes would be awarded to those who danced the prettiest. The orchestra burst into song, the castanets thrummed, trumpets blared, trays clattered, and soon the entire crowd in the hall was rocking and swaying. Waves of people danced past Aaron and Chaim. In the crush, amidst all the jostling, they got pulled into the dance circle. Brikman grabbed onto a flustered woman and kicked it up with her, skipped about and with great enjoyment tapped his feet to the beat of the castanets.

  With tremendous difficulty, Aaron Kaufman stumbled out of the human wave, sidled off to a corner and waited patiently for his friend.

  After the dance, Brikman—sweaty, happy—ran to find Aaron. He spotted him from a distance and cried out: “Why are you hiding? Let’s dance!”

  “Dance, of all things? I want to go home.”

  “Already?” Chaim pleaded. “You know what? Let’s go for a stroll. I want to look again at the city where I spent my first years as a greenhorn.”

  “Fine,” Aaron agreed, and they both set out upon the New York streets.

  The night was mild. A clear, starry sky and a full moon floated over the tall buildings. Chaim Brikman stopped, inhaled the fresh air, and gazed about him. “How delightful,” he said, “to be alive in this world! Only the skyscrapers are blocking my view of the sky. Take me away from this gentile neighborhood. Let’s go back to my good old str
eets, Forsyth Street, Allen and Delancey Street.” His tone was wistful.

  They walked slowly towards the Jewish neighborhood, while Chaim Brikman told Aaron all about his children and how they’d married Christian girls. His grandchildren knew nothing of Jewishness and one of his daughters-in-law, a religious Catholic, actually took the children to church. He himself also frequently forgot when it was a Jewish holiday. “But here it’ll be different. Now I’m back home. Back among Jews.”

  Aaron abruptly stopped walking and said, “Here you have it—Forsyth Street.”

  Chaim looked around, stunned. He saw an unfamiliar wide street, a garden with benches and a children’s playground on one side; on the other side, there were new buildings, modern stores.

  “You’re making fun of me or what? You’re fooling me, brother. Off with you! I want to see Forsyth Street. I want to see the dear old crooked tenements with the fire escapes, with the laundry hanging on clotheslines in the street.”

  “You won’t see those anymore,” his friend interrupted him. “They’re gone, along with our greenhorn years and our youth.”

  “Well then, take me to Delancey Street.” He refused to give up.

  “It’s not far. We’re almost there.”

  They walked silently, each lost in his own thoughts.

  “Right here’s Delancey Street,” Aaron Kaufman announced.

  Chaim looked around, shrugged his shoulders. Strange. All strange. Tall brick walls. New buildings. New shops. “Oy, unrecognizable,” he cried. “Let’s go to East Broadway. That’s the place I always think of as the Land of Israel.”

  “There, my friend, it is dark and silent now. Come to Allen Street. It isn’t far. After all, that’s where we once lived.”

  They arrived at Allen Street. This street, too, Chaim didn’t recognize. “It somehow became wider. And it looks so clean. With benches and strange shops,” he lamented.

  “The world moves forward,” Aaron said, “becomes modernized, with atom bombs . . . What did you expect? To still find the tramway maybe, pulled by a horse? Yes, the world moves ahead; only we go backwards. We’re already riding away from this fair.”