The Witch and the Borscht Pearl

by Angela Zeman

  I turned away from her. “What’s under that—that—draped thing? Is that a decoration?”

  Mrs. Risk turned to look. “Ah. ‘Vanity of vanity, saith the Preacher; all is vanity.’ It’s a tablecloth, looks like to me. Someone draped it over a mirror to hide it. Another Jewish custom. I’m surprised they thought of doing it.”

  “Who’s the Preacher?” I asked, bewilderedly.

  She sighed, but in an indulgent tone. “Answering your questions is like trying to fill a canyon with pebbles. He was another Solomon, but from a long time ago. One of civilization’s wisest men. I can see we’ll have to spend some time discussing the Bible, and I can foretell that I’ll need some of Solomon’s patience.”

  “Oh. The Bible.” I wandered on, losing interest. “I don’t want to become religious or anything.”

  “Mmm. Good decision. ‘Religion’ springs from man’s imagination and is rather a bad concept, in my opinion. The Bible has nothing to do with religion. It is rather a—well, think of it as a manufacturer’s operating manual for human beings. Like you get with cars.”

  I wandered off, bored. “Come on, let’s see where these stairs lead.”

  “We can’t do that now,” she declared, with a quick glance behind us. “We’ll be too noticeable.”

  I ignored her and kept going. She took hold of the back of my skirt and pulled, so I had no choice but to give in or be jerked off my feet. She can be strong, although I’m no light-weight.

  People were pouring through the door, now. Pearl and Bella had retired to the large room off to the side of the front door, the room Bella had barred us from entering that night of the storm. That thought reminded me of the peeping tom, and I wondered if he would show up. I wished I’d gotten a look at him. I drifted into the room with the flow of traffic. It was dumb to do, I know, but I couldn’t help peering into each face as if looking for flashing neon letters on the forehead, proclaiming, ‘I’m the peeping tom!’

  A cluster of people had gathered around Pearl and Bella, who were seated side by side on the sofa.

  A man stepped forward and leaned down to kiss Pearl on the cheek. She clasped his hand warmly in both of hers and introduced him to Bella as Harold Mann. He looked down and smiled, nodding politely to Bella. The murmuring in the crowd behind him indicated widespread recognition. I whispered at Mrs. Risk, “Who?”

  “Runs one of the oldest, best known theatrical booking agencies in Manhattan,” she whispered in return. “They’ve been in business for decades. Hush.”

  He spoke in an intimately pitched voice tinged with Brooklyn. “You’re a lovely lady, Bella, but knowing Solly, that’s no surprise. You had to be something special to land Solly in holy matrimony. Nice to meet you. Sorry it had to be like this.

  “My father, who most of you here knew,” he said with a backwards glance to include those crowded behind him. “He introduced me to Solly, back when I first came into the agency, Bella. Solly had a couple years on me. Not only in the business, but also in experience. All kinds of experience.” Again he flashed that slight smile, but this time it was tinged with that male smugness that means he was referring to women. I nudged Mrs. Risk to see if she’d caught that, but she ignored me.

  He continued. “Solly was a great guy, always willing to share his expertise with anybody. Very generous man.

  “And could he spot talent. I remember, for instance, when he came to me one day and said, ‘Harry, just saw a girl out in Bethlehem. Just terrible. But I’m going to tell you her name, and you’ll be remembering I told you some day, ’cause that girl’s gonna make it big. She’s got the warmest heart I ever saw on any one person, and it shines through like a spotlight.’ I asked Solly, did you sign her? And he said, ‘Nah, wouldn’t have me. But she will. She’s got my name on ’er.’”

  He beamed at Pearl, who gave his hand a quick squeeze. “And that’s the first day I ever heard of the Borscht Pearl. He waited for you, Pearl.

  “You know, Solly was so darned good looking. A film star he looked. I always wondered why Solly never applied his expertise to promote himself, but he liked the backstage. Solly was a star-maker. And I could trust Solly’s opinion. When he told me a singer was good, I didn’t even have to catch her act. I could book her into a gig with confidence.

  “But you were special to him, Pearl. When, one by one, he dropped everybody else and devoted himself to you exclusively, I knew you were meant for big things. And sure enough, you two became the best team ever to come outta the Catskills Circuit.” He shook his head. “Nobody like Solly. Nobody like you, either, hon.”

  He kissed Pearl again, nodded at Bella, then stepped back, inserting himself into the crowd. Another man who was shorter and probably in his late sixties took his place. His nimbly voice was too low and he spoke with a thick accent, so I only caught a word here and there. My attention began to be distracted more and more by the people arriving, so I confess I stopped listening.

  The crowd looked to be impressively prosperous, which told me that either theatrical people do better financially than I’d ever thought, or that they were careful to keep up the appearance of success.

  I noticed how squashed Simon Lutz looked, jammed between two taller men at the back of the room. He held a black kipah in his broad stubby hands and twisted it continually as he stared at Pearl with an expression resembling that of a basset hound with a stomach ache.

  About four more men and women took their turns, three of them referring kindly to Bella, one pointedly not acknowledging her existence. I heard bits and pieces of what must have made up the mosaic of Solly’s life, which seemed entirely drawn from his business. It appeared that he’d been an important man in his profession, known to everyone, and if the verbal bouquets were to be believed, liked universally. Except by one person, obviously.

  Then a petite, exquisitely groomed woman in mink trimmed suede stepped forward. She might have been in her late fifties, although it was hard to be sure. Her demeanor exhibited such a forceful vivaciousness in spite of her sadness that she caught my attention.

  “Joan Krasner,” Mrs. Risk murmured into my ear to answer my question. “She and her family own and run the famous Krasner’s Resort.”

  Ms. Krasner kissed both Pearl and Bella firmly on their cheeks. Pearl submitted with a sweet smile. Bella, as she had to all ministrations, responded woodenly.

  “How on earth do you know who she is?” I demanded, but was ignored. Mrs. Risk was totally absorbed in the drama being played out before us.

  “I’ll bet I know all of you here,” Ms. Krasner addressed the crowded room firmly, her voice easily heard, although pitched low.

  She grasped Pearl’s hand firmly in hers. “I remember how Solly was so meticulous, and I think that’s really the word for him, meticulous. He started at Krasner’s, you know, as a busboy. Like many of you here, he came back to us to work summer after summer.” She nodded as she said, “He grew into a great tummler, that Solly. He had the ladies lined up to dance with him,” and everyone chuckled. “Of course, he hadn’t met you yet, Bella.” She reached forward and gave Bella’s limp wrist a warm squeeze.

  “His parents didn’t have much, they were pretty old by the time Solly’d come along, and died before he even graduated from high school. Some of you may not have known that. I don’t think he’d mind me telling you now.

  “That’s why he seemed like he was a loner as a youngster. He was busy. Raising himself, taking care of elderly parents, and then later, putting himself through Columbia. When he came back to us as an agent, bringing his first client,” she gave a sad little smile, “he was a true member of the family. He came to us often, and he always called me ‘Mrs. Krasner.’ Finally, one day I told him, ‘Solly, you’re all grown up now, and we know each other pretty well—it’s time you called me by my first name.’ And he said he couldn’t do it. He said, ‘No, I have a certain respect for you different from everyone else,’ and he never would call me Joan.

  “Like Harry said, you could trus
t his judgment of a performer. And you always knew he’d have his client at the stage door as promised, on any given night, never fail. And well-dressed, it was like he was the performer instead of his artist. You all remember, never a thing that wasn’t the latest style.”

  She paused, then shook her head slowly. “What a miesse meshina! To go like this, it must have offended him. It’s not true that Solly had no family. We’re his family, all of us.” She took a deep breath and looked around her with misting eyes. “And we’ll never forget him.”

  And as she turned away, the tears in her eyes made her grope blindly for support. A man standing nearby took her elbow and helped her step back, gingerly handing her over to people who Mrs. Risk informed me were her husband, son, and daughter-in-law. Mrs. Risk bent again to whisper, “Practically everyone who’s ever played the Borscht Belt has worked at Krasner’s Resort. They’ve given dozens of big stars their first jobs.

  “Pearl told me once about Highway 17, the traditional ‘schlepp’ to the Catskills, she called it. Used by the comedians, dancers, singers, life guards, bus boys. And on Friday afternoons and Sunday nights it was filled with husbands who slaved in the City all week to support their family in the Catskills all summer.

  “A river of cars, Rachel. Just imagine. And at these resorts, the matrons played cards and kept a sharp eye on their daughters, who were busy meeting the future doctors who bussed tables for next semester’s tuition. Sons tested budding romantic impulses on tennis coaches and dance instructors. Entertainment directors—the ‘tummlers’—danced with the maiden aunts and neglected wives. Children rode horses, swam, and braided keychains of colored plastic with ‘camp counselors’.” Mrs. Risk smiled wistfully. “I wish I could have seen it myself.”

  I whispered back, “Think Pearl will make it for Thanksgiving?”

  Mrs. Risk turned to me, her black eyes glittering. “She’s determined to make it. She said it’s to going be a nationally televised ‘live’ special. It’ll either restore or destroy her career, what happens there. It means everything to her to make it. Don’t mention this to anyone, but she’s not as well-off financially as she presents herself.”

  My eyes narrowed. “But yesterday she implied she didn’t need money.”

  “That was for her friends’ benefit. She discussed it with me this morning, while you were luring Simon Lutz away from the arms of his adoring spouse.”

  “Don’t even joke about it. How bad off is she?”

  “Those disastrous expeditions of hers into other media were financed by herself. And at Solly’s instigation, she always gave personal guarantees to the other investors. He always got his money from the expenses end of the deals they made and did very well from them. She only paid and paid more. Now she has nothing left.”

  “Nothing? What about her husband Bernie? Wasn’t he a wealthy man? What happened to that?”

  “I asked that, too. She said Bernie had such faith in her that he handed everything over to her. Solly had total control of their joint finances. She has to get her career going again, or …”

  “Or what?”

  “That’s a good question. Never mind. I don’t want to distract myself by thinking about that now,” she said soberly.

  I turned away, horrified. It was my own worst fear, realized. I could empathize with her all too easily. Fifty eight years old with a frail heart, facing financial ruin now? Who was there to take care of her? And I worried about making puny little mortgage payments on a florist shop at the age of twenty one? I had the health of an athlete and a whole lifetime left in which to make my way, and no responsibilities besides myself. Mrs. Risk was right. I do worry about the wrong things.

  Mrs. Risk asked, “Where’re you going?”

  I had tripped over a chair, in a fog of anxiety for Pearl. “Oh. To look around.”

  Mrs. Risk surveyed the crowd surrounding the Schrafft sisters. “I’ll come, too.”

  At the end of the hall, no one was around, so I began mounting the stairs. Not wanting to appear as if I had a goal in mind, I went slowly, examining paintings on the wall as if in absorbed interest.

  Mrs. Risk remained below and in a soft voice said, as if amused, “What do you intend to do? You can’t just march up there into people’s private rooms.”

  I continued upstairs. “Why not?”

  Suddenly she rushed up the stairs behind me. She peered over her shoulder. “Because anyone downstairs who looked this way would be able to spot us. And there may be people already upstairs that we don’t know about. I’d intended to do this very thing, but only after discovering who was here and where they were.”

  “Hurry, or we’ll be caught.” I sped up.

  Mrs. Risk whispered, “They’ll certainly come to see what’s making a racket if you don’t stop clomping your huge feet on these wooden steps. Hush.”

  I began tiptoeing. “Or they could overhear your ridiculous hissing. You hush.”

  So, quarreling, we gained access to the upstairs. A third floor loomed enticingly above us.

  “Bet it costs a fortune to heat this place,” I muttered.

  Beneath the Oriental runner laid down the center of the passageway, the boards creaked, of course. The house was too old not to complain of intruders. Mrs. Risk trailed me as I went slowly from door to door, peering into the open ones and trying the knobs of the closed ones. The closed ones turned out to be only bathrooms and closets.

  “See here,” she finally said with a laugh. “Don’t you have any scruples when it comes to sneaking around people’s houses?”

  “Just as many as you do,” I answered loftily.

  “Well, maybe I meant discretion, especially when the people are in the house with us and the owner skimped on carpeting. Caution isn’t cowardice, it’s a weapon used by intelligent people.”

  She strode ahead then on those light and silent feet of hers and disappeared into the last door on our left at the front of the house. I hurried to catch up, walking swiftly heel-to-toe at the edge of the floor nearest the wall, on the theory that the center of the floor would’ve been the most used, thus the most stressed, and thus the noisiest. My theory only partially worked. As I was wondering, not for the first time, how Mrs. Risk manages to move so silently—my feet are not huge—I entered the room to find it to be an enormous bedroom. She shut the door as soon as I entered.

  “Solly’s room?” I asked, but of course it was. The bed was a four-poster, of carved dark oak, and had curtains of heavy brocade. The room was colored with sapphire, ruby reds, and hunter’s green on a pale gold background. The colors were echoed in the Oriental carpet that nearly filled the floor. The effect was rich and mellow without being fussy. The marbled bathroom was green and cream, with gleaming brass fixtures and every modern convenience. This old house had had the advantages of a good steady income and meticulous care, which reminded me again of Mrs. Krasner’s word about Solly. Meticulous. It fit.

  Mrs. Risk threw open the closet door—to reveal dozens of male suits shoved back unceremoniously to make room for ten or twelve feminine suits and dresses on padded hangers.

  “Bella’s?”

  “Must be,” agreed Mrs. Risk with a shrug. “She must have nerves of steel.”,

  “Or maybe just a lot of nerve.”

  Mrs. Risk smiled. “You should know.” At my glare, she held up her hands. “Tut! And I approve.”

  We retreated after Mrs. Risk poked swiftly through drawers and the few cabinets. If she found anything, she didn’t share the information with me.

  As we left the room, sounds carried up the stairs from the hall below, sounds of people leaving and many more arriving. Louder conversations began to sprout, warmed by alcohol, covering the noise of our footsteps, but also increasing the risk of our being spotted by wanderers. We had to hurry.

  The smell of warmed food and coffee engulfed me as we reached the other end of the hall and I felt immediately ravenous. Surprisingly, with the arrival of hunger pangs I also felt at once a lifting away of
the oppression that I’d absorbed at the cemetery.

  Reminded suddenly of the glass of wine I was carrying, I took a swallow.

  “Look. A desk,” said Mrs. Risk in a hiss, pointing.

  At the opposite end of the hall, beyond the head of the stairs, a room which faced out over the back of the house had been made into a study. The elimination of a wall made it an alcove, leaving the space open to observation from anywhere in the hall. A wide ornately carved oak desk nestled beneath a broad window made up of small square panes, like Mrs. Risk’s. The ocean view would’ve been breathtaking on any day when I hadn’t just returned from watching a man be planted into the dirt in a box.

  “We’re running out of time,” instructed Mrs. Risk. “We’ll check out the other rooms later. Watch the stairs.”

  I slipped over to stand guard by the edge of the staircase railing. Behind me I heard her scrabbling softly through drawers. Then came silence. I was jolted out of my fascinated straining to hear what was happening behind my back by the sudden appearance of Bella nearly in my face. “Hi, Bella. Beautiful house. I was, uh, just—” Immediately, I felt rather than heard Mrs. Risk’s arrival behind my back.

  “You seem so tired, dear,” said Mrs. Risk with concern. She circled around to stand next to me and gazed shrewdly at Bella. “Please don’t disturb yourself on our account, if that’s what’s worrying you. Is there anything we can do to help?”

  Bella smiled, an acid-dipped angry smile. “Yes. You can keep within my sight at all times and your hands out of my personal belongings.”

  My chin shot upwards at that. Mrs. Risk laid a restraining hand on my arm and only said softly, “Your belongings, dear?”

  Bella reddened. After a moment she said, “You might as well know now as later. Solly left me his house in his will. Unexpectedly.”

  Silence as we all digested that fact.

  Mrs. Risk finally said, “I’m honored that you trust me with your confidence.”

  “You should be, because I obviously can’t trust you with anything else. Now come down and stay with the others.”