The Righteous One
A Novel
Neil Perry Gordon
Copyright © 2019 Neil Perry Gordon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or redistributed in any printed or electronic form without prior, written permission of the author
Dedication
To my Dad - Whose eternal soul carries the flame that illuminates my journey
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
Myron Blass looked at himself in the mirror. The shadows under his eyes seemed to be getting darker. He ran warm water over his razor to wash off the stubble and finished shaving with a few upward strokes along his neck. The only remaining hairs were his salt and pepper eyebrows and some stubborn ones growing out of his nostrils like damn upside-down potted plants. Being completely bald made his grooming choices simpler, but he lamented that lately he was looking older than his forty-five years.
Myron grabbed a suit bag from his closet and with both hands placed it gently across his bed. He unzipped the fabric bag with the logo of Bergdorf Goodman emblazoned in gold letters on it, and carefully removed the garments. Putting on a new custom tailored suit for the first time from the Men’s Store at Bergdorf’s was a moment that affirmed in his mind that he was a man to be reckoned with.
Downstairs in the foyer, he took one last look in the mirror, and tugged up on the knot of his gold and navy striped tie. A peek through the sidelight window by the front door showed that his driver, Benjamin, was waiting for him. He ran the tips of his fingers down the lapel of his jacket and watched the nap of the suede shift into a lighter shade of brown. Then he ran it back up again and restored it to its original deep luster.
Myron stepped through the elaborate carved wooden front door adorned with polished brass hardware and out onto the curb. He took a look up and down the impeccably landscaped and well-appointed street and smiled and tipped his fedora to Benjamin, who stood by his perfectly detailed, black 1960 Cadillac Coup de Ville.
“Where to, sir?” Benjamin asked, offering a charming smile and holding the rear car door open.
“Morning Benjamin, let’s go see Pops,” he said.
Myron stared out the window as Benjamin drove across the causeway to City Island. He loved the countryside approach. The elevated bridge to the island provided a majestic view of the fishing boats anchored in the harbor. His father had lived here for the past twenty years since his mother passed. Myron wanted his father to move in with him, but he refused.
“What am I going to do? Watch TV all day?”
“Come on, Pops, it would be nice having you around.”
“Nonsense. If you want to see me, you get in that fancy car and drive over.”
The car pulled up to the weather beaten, waterfront home on Horton Street. Myron stepped out of his car and cursed at the damp mist drifting over from the saltwater bay, laying a moist coating upon his suede jacket.
As usual, the front door was unlocked. Myron entered and shouted, “Pops, where are you?”
There was no answer, which was also not surprising. He’s probably out back, Myron thought. He walked through the kitchen and out the back door, and there was Solomon Blass, sitting in an old lawn chair on a narrow and awkwardly tilted boat dock, with a fishing rod in his hand.
The moment Myron took a step on the dock, Solomon rose, put down the rod and said, “Let’s take a walk.”
“Okay, Pops, whatever you say.”
Solomon grabbed his cane hanging off the back of his chair.
“How you doin’?” Myron said.
“Myron, I need to talk to you about a dream I had.”
“A dream? Sure, tell me about it,” Myron said as he followed Solomon along the rocky shoreline of City Island Harbor.
Solomon lifted his index finger into the sky and said, “I dreamt I was back in Warsaw with the Tsvi Midal. Leo was with me and we were working a shtetl in Galicia. We had a few girls in the wagon ready for the ride back to Warsaw when I saw the tzaddik. He looked right at me with these sparkling blue eyes. I couldn’t draw my gaze away. He was young, no more than a teenager.” Solomon stopped and turned to his son, grabbed his shoulders and pulled him in tight. “He looked at me and said, as clear as if he was standing in your shoes right now, ‘I have returned’.”
There was a moment of silence before Myron asked, “Who has returned, Pops?”
“I just told you, the tzaddik.”
“A tzaddik? What’s a tzaddik?” Myron said shaking his head.
Solomon clutched his cane and pointed it at his son and said, “It is said that the tzaddikim are the hands of Hashem, gifted with the ability of providing a bridge into the Creator’s world. There are only thirty-six tzaddikim that live upon the earth at any one time.”
Myron shook his head. “And what does this have to do with us?”
Solomon’s eyes opened wide and he whispered, “The final battle is upon us. My time in this body is coming to an end, but your survival will depend on destroying the tzaddik.”
They walked back to the house in silence and ended up in the kitchen. Solomon sat down, and said, “The tzaddik will seek to destroy me and everything we built. He must be stopped.”
Myron turned his palms upward, shrugged and said, “Okay, Pops, what do you want me to do?”
“Bring me the rabbi. He’ll know.”
“Sure, Pops, right away.”
&nbs
p; Chapter 2
Moshe Potasznik sat behind his work table, trying to finish replacing a sole, when the bells hanging on the shop’s front door jingled. He removed his eyeglasses, set down the knife that he used to cut leather into shape, and went to greet the customer.
“Good morning sir, how may I be of service?” Moshe asked.
“Are you Moshe the Cobbler?”
“I am,” Moshe answered, thinking this was plainly obvious.
The man reached into a pocket of his gray overcoat and pulled out a card.
“My employer, Mr. Lieberman, would like to speak with you,” he said, handing Moshe a card.
Moshe offered a gentle smile and accepted it. He slipped his eyeglasses on and read:
Arnold Lieberman
New York City Councilman
2400 Grand Concourse
The Bronx, New York
CY8-6000
Moshe looked at the card, and then stared out the window of his shop to the building across the street. “Isn’t that the, um…?”
“The Paradise Theater? Yes, Mr. Lieberman owns the theater, his office is on the third floor,” said the man.
Moshe realized he was still pointing out the window and turned back to face the visitor. “And what does Councilman Lieberman want with me?”
The man, slightly taller and much slimmer than Moshe, took off his gray felt fedora and placed it on the counter. From inside his gray overcoat he reached in and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his brow. “It’s stifling hot in here.”
“It’s a warm one,” Moshe agreed. “Can I offer you some cold water?”
“Yes, that would be great.”
“Just give me a second, I have a pitcher in the fridge,” Moshe said, and walked into his workroom.
Moshe wondered why the owner of the Paradise Theater, where he just saw the movie Spartacus, starring Kirk Douglas, would want to see him.
He offered the glass of water to the man dressed in all gray.
“Thank you, Moshe,” he said, and guzzled it down.
“Please tell me your name, sir, and why does the councilman want to speak with me?”
“People call me Gray,” he said gesturing his arms like a performer to emphasize his gray wardrobe.
Moshe scanned the man from head to toe; from his gray leather shoes, which Moshe noted were in a serious need of a shine, to his gray slacks poking out under his gray overcoat. He wore a gray dress shirt, a gray tie, and sported a nice full head of gray hair. Even his eyes sort of looked gray.
“I can see,” smiled Moshe.
“Mr. Lieberman has not shared with me the reason why he wants to see you, Moshe. I am nothing more than a humble messenger.”
“When would he like to see me?”
“Oh, right now,” Gray said, gesturing to the front door.
“In the middle of the work day?” Moshe asked.
“This shouldn’t take too long. Please come now,” he said, gesturing to the door.
Moshe looked out onto the busy sidewalk and wondered how many customers would be disappointed at finding the shop closed. But curiosity moved him to grab the shop keys from the hook, turn the sign to Closed and lock the front door.
The Paradise Theater was not only Moshe’s favorite movie house in The Bronx, it was also considered an architectural marvel in all of the city’s five boroughs. Over the marquee that announced the current showing was a Seth Thomas clock, where at the top of each hour in a recessed alcove, Saint George appeared and slayed a fire-breathing dragon.
The main lobby’s ceiling featured three recessed domes, each one decorated with hand-painted murals representing various themes of movie-making. But what Moshe marveled at most was the beautifully carved marble statue of the Winged Victoria positioned upon a marble fountain, where a pool of water reflected shimmering images of the three domes above it.
Moshe once read in a program that the auditorium was designed to represent a sixteenth-century Italian baroque garden. During a showing, if Moshe sank low enough into his seat, he could see the ceiling filled with twinkling stars shining through a painted array of clouds that somehow appeared to be floating slowly by.
Gray held open one of the large, just-polished brass doors leading into the main lobby and gestured toward the elaborately decorated wrought iron railing that wrapped along the carpeted spiral staircase. “Please, Moshe, this way.”
Moshe climbed up the two levels to the very top floor. He glanced to his right and saw upon the landing a set of padded doors leading to the upper levels of the theater. This was a familiar sight when he and his wife Leah ended up in the nose-bleed seats a few times, when the theater was at its capacity.
Gray directed Moshe through an inconspicuous door and inside to a reception area that lacked the ornate architectural designs of the theater’s public spaces. A woman with curly red hair was busy typing at a desk. She briefly looked up and said, “Go right in, he’s waiting for you.”
“Thank you, Agnes,” said Gray.
Moshe offered Agnes a smile, which went unnoticed as she quickly returned to her task on the typewriter.
“You must be Moshe the Cobbler?” Arnold said the moment Moshe took his first step into the office.
“The last I looked,” Moshe said offering a quick wit.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Arnold said, reaching out to shake his hand.
Moshe clutched Arnold’s hand and looked into his gentle brown eyes, set off by bushy eyebrows and smooth as silk skin. He imagined that Arnold probably indulged himself with a barbershop shave each morning.
“Thank you, Gray. Please close the door on your way out,” Arnold said.
Gray offered Moshe a brief wave and left.
Arnold walked over to a large window. Moshe watched him as he stood there for a moment, gazing out. He is dressed as a councilman should be, thought Moshe. He wore a brown business suit that seemed to be tailored to fit his hefty frame, and from what Moshe could make out from a brief glance, expensive shoes.
“So you may be wondering why I asked you here.”
“Now that you mention it…” he said, with a casual flip of his hand.
Arnold sighed and said, “What I am about to tell you, you may find, um, strange.”
Moshe shrugged. “I’ve seen plenty of strange things in my lifetime, Councilman.”
“Please, Moshe, call me Arnold.”
Moshe nodded.
Arnold walked over to his leather chair behind his desk and sat down. “Please sit.”
Moshe tried to sit, then realized he had forgotten to remove his work apron which still had a few tools tucked inside the large pouch.
“Sorry, do you mind?” Moshe gestured to the desk.
“Tools of the trade?” Arnold said.
“Please, Arnold, tell me why I’m here,” Moshe asked, placing his apron down.
“I’ve been studying with a rabbi who you probably know.”
“And who would that be?”
“Rabbi Shapira. I believe his father was your rabbi from your birthplace in Krzywcza,” he said.
“You know Rabbi Shapira’s son?” Moshe asked.
Arnold nodded, smiled and said, “He’s teaching me Kabbalah.”
Moshe barely remembered the rabbi’s son. He was at least ten years older than Moshe, and left his family to study at the Rabbinical school in Lviv when Moshe was still a young boy.
“Maybe I met the rabbi’s son a few times,” Moshe said, and wondered what this had to do with him.
“Well the rabbi remembers you.” Arnold leaned in and said, “I’ve been looking for you for over ten years, Moshe, and all this time, you were right across the street.”
Moshe shrugged, gave a slight tilt of his head and asked, “And why would you be looking for me?”
“Rabbi Shapira told me of your story. How you were born in the Galician shtetl of Krzywcza, and about your family’s daring escape from the first World War. What he didn’t know was what happened to your fam
ily when you made it to America.”
Moshe thought about the old rabbi. The last time he had seen him was forty-five years ago when his father, Pincus, and Pincus’s friend Jakob had rescued him, his mother, Clara, his sisters, Jennie and Anna, and his brother, Hymie.
“That was a long time ago. What interest is my life to you?” Moshe asked.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Moshe. But what I learned from the rabbi, and why I have been looking for you all these years is because I know that you are tzaddik,” Arnold said.
Moshe froze at hearing these words. He had not been called tzaddik since he was a teenager living on the Lower East Side, just after his family immigrated to America. He remembered well the events, both in Krzywcza and in New York, of his abilities of easing those in distress and being able to foretell tragic events moments before they occurred. The last one was when his father Pincus died the next day after his mother Clara passed away. But that was over fifteen years ago.
When Moshe asked how he found him, Arnold said, “That is the most amazing part. I searched every record I could find on families who emigrated from Krzywcza before 1920 with no luck. Then, just a few weeks ago, I met someone at shul who heard about my research and asked me if I ever heard of an organization called the Landsman Society. He explained that these organizations were support groups set up by immigrants from the shtetls of Eastern Europe, as a way to help one another create new lives for their families in the New World.” He paused, and looked at Moshe.
Moshe nodded and said with a smirk, “And that’s when you found the Landsman Society of Krzywcza.”
“Exactly!” Arnold said, pointing a finger at Moshe as if he had just won a prize. “Your father was its founder, Pincus Potasznik. Rabbi Shapira remembered that Pincus was a cobbler. So I was finally able to put two plus two together and presto, Moshe the Cobbler.”
With his palms lifted upwards, Moshe asked, “So, what do you want from me?”
“Moshe, you’re tzaddik, one of only thirty-six in all of the world. You may not have practiced your gifts in a while,” Arnold lowered his voice and said, “but we need you now.”
“Need me for what?”
“There’s a Jewish gangster living right here, in the Bronx. His name is Myron Blass. He leads an organized crime outfit that has been infecting the community. I had some business interactions with him years ago,” he said, and paused with a guilty-looking grimace.
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