by Dan Sofer
“What’s his problem?” Moshe asked when their taskmaster had left.
Shmuel opened the plastic bag and handed out the sandwiches. “He’s always like that. Do your work and keep your mouth shut and you’ll be OK.”
Moshe decided not to ask what would happen if he were to ignore that advice. The answer would probably not involve severance pay and no hard feelings.
His sandwich consisted of two stiff slices of white bread held together by a brown smear of chocolate spread. They munched their meal without complaint, and washed the stale bread down with tap water cupped in their hands under a kitchen faucet. Their employers did not splurge on creature comforts.
What was the company’s name? The warehouse had no markings. He had not retained a copy of the contract. He had been elated to find a place to work and sleep.
They completed the paint job and boarded the minivan for their next task: weeding the large yard of a house in Beit Zait on the wooded outskirts of West Jerusalem. Moshe and Shmuel traded afterlife stories. Shmuel, a retired journalist, had died four years ago. When Moshe asked how he had passed, however, the older man had clenched up. “Too soon,” he said. Moshe didn’t press the matter.
Moshe hacked at a patch of weeds with a garden hoe. He had passed the entire day in hard labor and was no closer to his family. He thought of little Talya with her bushy black curls and her mother’s eyes, and acid burned in his gut.
“You OK?” Shmuel asked. He rested on his shovel. Moshe had taken out his frustrations on the undergrowth with more violence than necessary.
Moshe straightened and drew a long breath. “My daughter,” he said. “She’s growing up so fast and I won’t see it. I’m not there for her.” He listened to his own words and gave a short, ironic laugh. “I suppose nothing much has changed. When I was alive, I wasn’t around much either. I spent all my time at the office.”
He pulled a large wild plant from the ground and shook dirt from the roots. He had lost two years of his life and now he would miss his chance to get to know his daughter.
“You should speak with her,” Shmuel said. He was still watching him.
“I tried that. She doesn’t even remember me.”
“When is her birthday?”
Moshe massaged the pain in his back. Black grit filled the lines of his fingers. “In a month.”
“Surprise her with an early birthday present. She’ll warm to you. And your wife will be more responsive if your daughter is on your side.”
That was good advice. Avi’s threat to his life had revolved around Galit, but not little Talya. Gifts, however, required money, and his first payday was a month away—and two weeks after the wedding date. But the idea hogged his thoughts until the sun dipped toward the horizon and the minivan drove them back to Talpiot, drained and caked in sweat.
The smells of cooking and soiled clothing filled the warehouse. Laborers limped about in small packs of Africans and Romanians. Some kept to their tents and hung damp clothing on the partition walls. A line led to the bald cook who ladled soup into tin cups. Another line led to field showers, judging by the scant dress and towels.
They waited for their soup. Moshe’s stomach growled. A fight broke out further up the line. A Nigerian shoved a Romanian. Shoves turned to blows, but not for long. A giant in a gray suit marched across the warehouse floor. He swatted the brawlers to the ground with hands like boulders and dragged them away, a human King Kong, without breaking a sweat.
The line re-formed. The soup was thick with barley and beans, and after they ate, they prepared to shower.
“Go ahead,” Moshe told the others. “I need to have a word with the boss.”
He climbed the stairwell, crossed the metal bridge, and knocked on the door of the corner office. Hearing nothing, he tried the handle.
Boris shoved a thick wad of shekel notes in a drawer and looked up at him. King Kong stood behind his boss, his back to the wall, his arms and neck as thick as tree trunks.
“Do you have a minute?”
Boris waved him to an empty chair.
“My daughter has a birthday soon.”
“Mazel tov.” The lids beneath the bushy eyebrows drooped with boredom.
“I’d like to get her a gift. I was wondering: can you advance me my salary for this month? Or part of it?”
Moshe had never had to beg in his life. He felt two inches tall. He’d have to get used to that. The gray mustache wriggled like a ferret. Did Boris have children? Would he understand?
His boss drew a deep breath. “I don’t do this, usually,” he said. Moshe’s heart did a double flip. He had expected a flat no, but Boris opened the drawer, reached in, and threw a two-hundred-shekel note on the desk.
Moshe picked up the crumpled note. He held ten percent of his monthly salary—far below minimum wage—but enough for a Barbie doll and a small cake. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s your time.”
“My time?”
“It’ll take longer to pay back your debt.”
“What debt?”
The mustache tilted. “The apartment. The food. Someone has to pay for those.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You signed the contract. Board and lodging: eighteen hundred per month. Paid up front. Interest at ten percent.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“Yes you did.” Boris pushed a document on the desk toward Moshe. He had signed the same form the day before. “From the moment you signed on the dotted line, you owe us.”
Moshe had not read the fine print. He didn’t need to. “That’s not legal.”
Boris laughed. “What are you going to do?”
King Kong cracked his knuckles. Moshe was not about to make threats, but Boris read his mind. “The police don’t bother us here.”
“I want out.”
Boris shrugged. “Walk out the door anytime you like. A few have tried. They always come back. Our associates are very persuasive. Ask Damas about that.”
King Kong grinned. Moshe thought of the angry Ethiopian and his two missing fingers.
“And if you cause more trouble than you’re worth, we’ll call the police ourselves and give them this.” His reached into the drawer and laid a card on the table like a gambler revealing the winning ace. The identity card contained Arabic writing and a photo of Moshe’s face.
“Musa Ibrahim,” Boris explained. “An Egyptian citizen and an illegal alien in this country. He looks rather like you, don’t you think?”
Moshe shot to his feet. The chair crashed behind him. “You can’t do that!”
King Kong took a heavy step forward.
Boris kept his eyes on Moshe. “Work hard. Keep your mouth shut. If you’re smart, you’ll buy your way out.”
“How can I buy out at ten percent?”
“There are ways. You could climb the ranks. We have other, more profitable jobs for men with the right skills and inclination.”
“What skills?”
The gray mustache tilted again. “I’m glad you asked.”
CHAPTER 40
That night, Moshe dreamed of his father and grandfather. He had never seen the two men together in life, but there they stood, shoulder to shoulder, in a misty twilight, on a grassy bank at the end of a long suspension bridge. Moshe shifted his feet over the rotted planks. He clutched the frayed handrails. The old ropes groaned and rocked in the chill wind over a black abyss. His forebears watched him, their faces inscrutable.
Moshe struggled to keep his balance. Don’t look down! He urged his stiff limbs to advance. A Karlin never quits. But with each brave foot forward, the security of the grassy bank drifted further away.
He awoke in a dew of sweat. He felt his wrist for his watch—he had strapped it on before zipping up his sleeping bag—and relaxed when his fingers found the familiar square of cool metal.
Above his cot, black wires and rusty metal struts crisscrossed the void beneath the roof of the warehouse. The stale air
smelled of dust and damp clothes. A hundred manual laborers snored in the night, like frogs trapped in a muddy swamp.
He squinted at the watch face. 4:35 AM. He reviewed his plan in his mind. All the other options he had considered would have put his friends and family in harm’s way. He had no choice. He had one hope of escape, and the thought made his heart pound.
Last night, he had learned that Boris had expanded his dodgy operation beyond forced labor.
“What skills?” Moshe had asked. He should have kept his mouth shut and gone to bed, but the shock and anger over his servitude had mobilized his tongue.
Boris smiled. “Persuasion. Stores all over the city pay hard cash for our protection. Some need a little convincing from time to time.”
“That’s extortion,” Moshe had said.
The word did not seem to bother Boris. “Racketeering, technically.” He leaned forward on the desk. “You’ll make an excellent salesman. I have an eye for this sort of thing. I’ve even selected your first customer.”
Moshe tossed and turned on his cot. Springs creaked as workers shifted in their sleep and dreamed of brighter tomorrows.
At five-thirty, he rolled off his bed and dressed. He made for the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and peered at his unshaven visage in the cracked mirror. If his father and grandfather could see him now—a penniless, homeless slave. A dismal end to their legacy. But he could descend further still into dishonor. By the end of the day, he would hit rock bottom.
He knocked on the flap of Irina’s cubicle. She pulled the curtain aside. Her platinum blond hair pushed in all directions. The fairy had just awoken, but this was no fairy tale. Samira lay on her cot, bundled in her sleeping bag.
Irina watched him with concern. “You OK?”
Moshe nodded. He had to do it. He had no choice. “I have to go somewhere this morning,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “I’ll come with.”
“No,” he said. “I have to go alone.” If he told her, she might talk him out of it.
Her cheek twitched. He had told her about his conversation with Boris the previous night, and she knew the consequences of not showing up for work. He imagined the questions that flooded her mind. Where? What? Why? Thankfully, she asked none.
“Be careful,” she said.
He turned away from her before he could change his mind.
He pulled the warehouse door open on the tracks and slipped out into the early morning gloom. He hurried along the dank alleys of the industrial zone. He looked over his shoulder every few steps, expecting to find King Kong or another faceless thug at his heels, but he had escaped unnoticed.
Beep-beep-beep! The high-pitched alarm of a reversing delivery van made him jump as it backed up. He hurried through the gap between the van and a loading platform, and marched on.
Sunlight spilled over Pierre Koenig Street, the two-lane backbone of Talpiot, and glinted off the trickle of commuter cars. He slackened his pace. A few blocks down, he found an empty bench, and sat like a traitor awaiting execution.
An Egged bus hissed to a stop, and a herd of cashiers and garage workers disembarked and hurried to their jobs. Did they have any idea about the forced labor camp a few streets away? Did any of them care?
Soon Damas and his minivan would set out without him. He had missed his shift. His taskmasters would deduct the workday from his salary and sink him deeper into debt. If he failed to return by lights out, their goons would seek him out. They would find him. They would make him go back. Moshe was not going back. Not as a slave.
Exhaust fumes carried in the air. His stomach groaned, but he had no desire to eat. He would not be able to keep the food down.
Across the street stood his target, a small store squeezed between a haberdashery and a hole-in-the-wall selling cheap household plastics. Moshe had driven by a thousand times and never imagined that, one day, fate would lead him to that particular store.
Soon, the store would open. He had a few minutes to contemplate what he was about to do—his last moments of innocence before he sold his soul.
CHAPTER 41
Irina boarded the minivan and sat in the middle row—the seat she had shared with Moshe the day before. Her arms hugged her chest. The idling engine made the seats vibrate and her body seemed to shiver in the morning twilight. She had never spent a day apart from Moshe, and she felt vulnerable in his absence.
Last night, Moshe had told them about his meeting with Boris.
“So we’re slaves?” Shmuel cried out.
Moshe asked him to keep his voice down but said no more. He had not told them all he knew. Had he been trying to protect them?
Samira climbed into the van and claimed the seat beside her. The Arab girl turned her wide, innocent eyes on her. “Has he left us?” she whispered.
“No, of course not. Moshe would never do that.” But the girl had voiced Irina’s own deepest fear.
“How do you know?” The question came from Shmuel on the seat behind her.
“I know.”
Their Ethiopian taskmaster leapt into the front cabin. He turned and counted them like sheep. He scowled at Irina. “Where’s your friend?”
She shrugged.
“Gone fishing?” His sense of humor lasted all of one second before he slammed his fist on the backrest. “You’re mine, you understand? You do as I say. Nobody runs off. OK?” Then he smiled. It was an ugly smile. “You know why they don’t lock the door at night?” He let their imaginations run wild. “That’s right: they don’t need to. Every once in a while, a genius tries to run away. We have ways of finding lost property. We always get our property back.” He held up his hand.
Samira gasped and Irina looked away. Two of his fingers ended in short stumps.
He laughed again, turned around, and tapped the driver.
As the van set out, he spoke into his mobile phone, loud and clear, for their benefit. “Boris, yes. Moshe Karlin didn’t show up for work today. Good.” He put away the phone.
“The dogs are out, boys and girls. Once they get a scent, nothing can stop them. Your friend will be back soon, one way or another.” He glanced at the driver and they laughed.
The van accelerated toward their next job.
Shmuel leaned forward and whispered in Irina’s ear. “I hope Moshe knows what he’s doing.”
Irina hoped so too.
CHAPTER 42
Moshe watched the store across Pierre Koenig Street. An old man wearing a flat cap rolled up the security gate and unlocked the door.
Moshe waited ten minutes. Then he crossed the street at the light. He paused outside the dusty display window. A chair of carved oak with an embroidered seat. A stuffed owl. A brass trumpet. Plates and figurines of painted China.
Bells jingled as he entered. The old man looked up from his coffee and newspaper on the glass counter. A large wisp of white hair like cotton candy had replaced the hat. He gave his customer the once-over with hungry vulture eyes.
“Let me guess,” he said. “The wife’s jewelry?”
Moshe had encountered yet another creature that enjoyed feasting on the unfortunate. He disliked the man already. That would make his task easier.
He drew a deep breath and unstrapped the watch on his wrist. The word “Rolex” glittered in gold leaf. He ran his fingers over the shiny silver frame for the last time, then he placed the last vestige of his family’s former greatness on the counter, and imagined his forebears turning in their graves.
The vulture eyes ogled the timepiece with restrained, calculating greed. The old man snatched up the watch. He lodged a long monocle in his eye and examined the face. He turned the metal casing over and tested the black leather straps with gnarled, spotty fingers. Desire flashed in the pawnbroker’s eyes.
Then he returned the watch to the glass counter, as though he had handled a dead lizard.
Moshe’s heart sank. The old man had rejected his most prized possession.
“I’ll give you five,” he sai
d.
Moshe’s relief at the offer soon evaporated.
“Five what?”
“Five magic beans. What do you think? Five hundred shekels.”
“Five hundred? You must be joking. For a Rolex Bubbleback 1948 Limited Edition? My grandfather paid a king’s ransom for that watch and it has only appreciated since.”
The old man shuttered his eyelids. “For all I know it was made in China.”
His blood boiled. “That is no imitation. My grandfather bought it firsthand. Three generations in the family. It’s worth at least forty thousand.”
The old pawn dealer made a dry sound that was either a cough or a laugh. “For forty thousand I’ll sell you the shop. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to move this trinket, never mind turn a profit.”
The old man was a wily one; he had to be for his store to survive. Moshe needed to survive too. He would have to find another dealer.
Moshe made to collect the watch.
“Five thousand.” The words pinned Moshe’s hand like an arrow. “Five thousand. Not an agorah more.”
Hello! The old man’s bluff shattered on the dusty floor, but Moshe needed more than five thousand. Aim too high and he’d miss the deal. He needed a deal and the old man held all the cards.
“Twenty.”
The old man locked his eyes on Moshe, who made a mental note never to play poker with the old vulture.
“Ten thousand. Cash.”
Moshe had no bank account. No ID for cashing checks. The old man seemed to know that. Ten thousand might just be enough.
“Fifteen,” he said.
A clock ticked out five seconds and then the old man nodded his head. Moshe released a sigh from deep within his chest. The pawnbroker scurried about the store, opening drawers, extracting wads of hundred-shekel notes from shoeboxes and crannies. He counted the bills on the glass counter in crumpled piles. Moshe shoved the cash into his pockets and, casting one final glance at the watch, he left the store.
