Enemy of the Tzar

by Lester S. Taube

  “I guessed as much.” He let out a long pent up breath and turned to his nephew. “I will need your help.”

  “It’s there,” said Jules.

  Natalie fired the opening gun by inviting Hanna and Jakob to the Sabbath supper.

  “It must not come over too strongly,” Fergl cautioned her.

  Martha waved her finger warningly at Natalie. “What he means is not too…well, don’t overdo it. Keep everything simple.”

  “We’ll use the blue set of dishes,” said Natalie, getting the drift at once.

  “That’s right,” agreed Martha. “Let’s make it completely conventional.”

  It was Wednesday evening that Fergl and Jules, playing checkers in the library of Fergl’s large, three-storied Victorian-style house, heard their wives finally come in. Both wore pink cheeks from the cold weather, but they were elated. Fergl’s houseman took their coats, then they walked quickly into the library, their shoulders hunched. They backed up to the glowing fire, nodding their thanks as Fergl brought over small glasses of schnapps.

  “We can get it,” said Natalie, almost bursting with excitement.

  “How does it look inside?” asked Jules.

  “It could use a new coat of paper in the parlor,” said Martha. “A different color.”

  “How much does he want?” asked Fergl.

  “Twenty-five marks a month,” said Martha. “I offered him twenty-two, which he accepted after I made him look at the parlor walls twice.”

  “Jules,” said Fergl. “How about getting those walls papered right away? The girls can pick out the color and design.”

  “No problem,” said his nephew. “What’s his name–Knepper? This is certainly his slow season. I’ll arrange for him to get the paper tomorrow morning.”

  “What will you serve for supper, Natalie?” asked Martha.

  “I’m making everything strictly kosher. I’ve heard enough about Jakob. Incidentally, what do we call him? Mordecai or Jakob?”

  “Mordecai in public, Jakob in private,” said Jules. “Remember, their lives are still in danger.”

  “Exactly,” added Fergl. “And Natalie, you are doing fine.” He looked over at Jules. “I have everything arranged for the meeting tomorrow afternoon. Are you sure your aunt will make it?”

  Jules nodded. “I told her the entire story. She was pounding the floor so hard with her cane that I thought she would tear the rug.”

  “We’ll have to be careful with Hyman Colemann. He has the stiffest back in Germany. Maybe the world.”

  As scheduled, the following afternoon, Fergl and Jules entered the rabbi’s office at the synagogue. Fergl’s sister, Nessie, and Jules’ aunt, Ida, were already there. The two men shook hands with Rabbi Gluck, then with Hyman Colemann, president of the congregation, Joseph Begeller, the vice president, and kissed the two women.

  “I don’t want him,” growled Hyman Colemann, even as the two men were about to take their seats.

  Fergl had decided that Jules should take the lead, so he nodded for him to begin.

  “I can understand your feelings, Herr Colemann,” said Jules quietly. “But perhaps I should explain a few points.”

  “Points you can make until doomsday. It still doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want him.”

  Jules leaned forward in his straight-backed chair. “Would you please tell me why?”

  Colemann tapped a short, stubby finger in the palm of his other hand. He was a short, stubby man, with grizzled gray hair, in his mid-seventies, who wore rumpled clothing and an equally rumpled gray hat. It was difficult to imagine him as the owner of an ultra modern chemical factory that employed over two hundred people. “First,” he replied, continuing to tap that imposing finger, “he’s a Hasid. Hasids are troublemakers. They make a Jew feel like he’s worshiping the wrong God, may the Lord forgive me. Second, I hear he’s the son of a rebbe. If you can compute by numbers how bad a Hasid is, then you can multiply by ten times how much worse is the son of a rebbe.” He pointed that dominating finger at Jules. “By the second service, he’ll be trying, first, to convert everyone to Hasidim, and, second, to take over the congregation. Finally, like I said, I don’t want him.”

  “Did Rabbi Gluck tell you about his qualifications?” asked Jules.

  “Twice. The first time right after I said no, and again after I said no the second time.”

  Jules leaned back into his chair. He could have used a drink about now, but knew it was out of place. “Suppose we can keep him away from the congregation, except for services?”

  “Next you’ll tell me you have a way to keep water from flowing downhill.”

  “Hymie!” snapped Jules’ Aunt Ida. She was ninety years old, a tall, brisk woman of great means, who gave liberally to the synagogue. “If you don’t like the Hasidim, that is your business. I don’t like them either. But I will not have you browbeating Jules. He is like his father, may he rest in peace. His father would take just so much before the roof exploded.”

  “Thank you, Tante Ida,” said Jules with affection. He knew that Colemann would never take on his aunt, which is why he invited her in the first place, but an argument could cloud the issue. “Herr Colemann,” he said. “If Rabbi Gluck explained all the facts, then you know that Herr Gulman is an extraordinarily scholarly man. I think we could search far and wide to find one so talented.”

  “Very well,” said Colemann more calmly. “I’ll concede the point. But a job with the shul? He’s got to come in contact with the congregation. Even as a melamed he’d speak now and then with the parents. And can you imagine him for two hours, three times a week with the children?”

  Jules almost grinned at the trap he had laid. “Your point is well taken, Herr Colemann. But please let me get back to the question I asked. Suppose we can keep him away from the congregation, expect for services? Would you consider it then?”

  Colemann was about to bring up another water going uphill comment, but Ida cleared her throat. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “Explain that, Jules,” he said.

  “I’ll be delighted to, Herr Colemann. But first, it’s important to know if you would consider a job which will keep him away. You don’t have to agree–just consider.”

  “Jules,” said Colemann, his patience showing thin. “I said I will listen to your explanation. I don’t want you to put words in my mouth.” He turned quickly to Ida. “And I am not browbeating your nephew, Tante.”

  She nodded in agreement. Jules was pushing too hard.

  “Very well,” said Jules, pulling in his horns. “We have in our library and down in the cellar at least…” He turned to Rabbi Gluck, “…two thousand books?”

  Rabbi Gluck nodded. “More, I think.”

  “More than two thousand books, Herr Colemann,” said Jules. “None of them catalogued.” He shook his hand for emphasis. “Can you imagine looking for a book for reference? It would be almost impossible.”

  Colemann leaned forward in his chair. He was a businessman, a leader of the religious community, a hard-fisted, hard-headed, hard-spoken person. But first and last, he was an orthodox Jew, and literacy was the hub of the wheel upon which Judaism rode. “Go on, Jules,” he finally said.

  “Some, maybe many, of those books speak of things we don’t even know are there. We need someone who understands Jewish law, history, philosophy…”

  He stopped to watch the old man’s reaction. He was listening closely, his mind already ahead of the spoken words. “Herr Colemann,” went on Jules. “Please take this in the manner in which it is meant. I propose that Herr Gulman be engaged to catalogue and comment on the books in our possession, and to set up a filing system similar to that in a public library. If our library was properly arranged, it could contain all the books in the cellar, and some chairs and tables for those who wish to refer to them. I further propose that it be named the Hyman Colemann Library.”

  At Jules’ explanation, Colemann had leaned even further forward in interest, but at his last comm
ent, his face grew grim and angry. He opened his mouth.

  “Hyman,” came the deep voice of Fergl. Colemann turned his angry face towards him. Friedrich Fergl rarely spoke more than was absolutely necessary, but it paid to stop and listen.

  “Yes, Fred,” he said, his growl unmistakable.

  “I think you are about to misjudge Jules. We spoke of this last night. You have been president of the congregation for more than twenty years, and I have voted for you each time. You built this synagogue on a shoestring to what it is today. If any name deserves to be on that library, it’s yours.” He sat back in his chair.

  There was silence as Colemann tamped down his temper. Then he took another deep breath. “I like your idea of the library, Jules,” he said calmly. “I knew we are not a yeshiva, but we should offer our young people and scholars all that we have available.” He turned towards Begeller. “What do you think, Joseph?”

  “I like it, Hymie. But what will it cost?”

  Colemann looked back at Jules. “All right, my fine young man. What have you to say to that?”

  “I thought of fifteen marks a week.”

  Colemann snorted. “Fifteen marks! You must be joking. All he will be doing is looking over books and making notes.”

  Jules was ready for such a comment. “Reading those books and making those notes requires a very learned man.” He turned to Rabbi Gluck for support. “Is that not true?”

  Gluck sighed. He wanted the Hasid less than Colemann. But he also would like to have that library. Actually, it was his idea in the first place, mentioned casually over the years as a sort of conversation piece. But he knew that he did not have enough years left in this lifetime to go through those books. “I agree, Hyman. There are works that some yeshivas don’t have. For example, I have seen half a dozen dealing just with Cabalism.”

  “That mumbo-jumbo,” said Colemann with disgust.

  “Perhaps it is,” said Gluck. “But it is an integral part of Judaism. I know that we orthodox Jews are wary of mystical faith, that it must be written in black and white. It’s safer that way. But faith can go from A to Z.”

  Colemann shook his head. “Rabbi, I hope you stay away from that Hasid. Between you, him, and Cabalism, we could have water running uphill.” He folded his stubby hands. “Eight marks. That’s the limit,” he said to Jules.

  “He’s worth fifteen,” said Jules deliberately. “I think you know it, even without meeting him.”

  Colemann waved his hand. “I don’t need an introduction. I’ll take a look at ten.”

  “He’s going to make that library something special,” insisted Jules. “We should have only the best.”

  Colemann shook his head. “The way you people spend money, it’s a wonder we got this far with the shul. All right, Jules. You sold me on twelve.”

  “With a house,” said Jules.

  “A house!” shouted Colemann.

  “Where is this house, Jules?” asked Ida at once. She knew exactly where it was located.

  “It is half a block from here. Herr Gulman is not able to walk long distances.”

  “Can this twelve mark Hasid with a house work nine hours a day?” asked Colemann sarcastically. “By the way, how much does it cost?”

  “Twenty-two marks a month,” said Jules. Colemann’s face grew red. “But I want to donate eleven marks a month extra to the shul, in addition to my regular dues.”

  “And I,” said Ida, “also want to donate an extra eleven marks.”

  “And I will donate an extra eleven,” said Natalie’s Aunt Nessie.”

  “And I,” said Friedrich Fergl quietly.

  Colemann looked in silence at the four, studying them one by one. Then he cleared his throat. “There is something here I don’t know about,” he said slowly. “But coming from you people, it tells me that this man is more than meets the eye.” He looked down at his stubby hands for a few seconds. “Rabbi,” he said to Gluck. “We will start Herr Gulman at fifteen marks a week.” He glanced at Jules, and his eyes twinkled. “Plus the twenty-two mark house.”

  CHAPTER 28

  On the following Friday afternoon, Jules picked up Hanna and Jakob. Hanna carried a small, cardboard case holding their sleeping articles, for they had been invited to stay the night. Their hosts knew they would not ride on the Sabbath, and they lived too far to walk home.

  Soon the Fergls, Natalie’s parents, and her widowed aunt, Nessie, walked in. Natalie’s mother and Nessie kissed Hanna warmly, for it was also their brother she had tried to save. They all greeted Jakob courteously, their compassion being put to the test at his bone thin condition, then all sat in the parlor sipping at a cool, local wine.

  When the sun began to sink, Jules called out, “It’s time for shul. Uncle Freddy, we’ll take two cars.”

  “How far is it?” asked Hanna.

  “Three blocks,” said Jules.

  “We would prefer to walk, if you do not object” she said.

  Jules nodded. He had suggested the cars only because he was not certain of Jakob’s condition. “Excellent,” he said, rising to his feet. “It’s about time we used some of these lazy muscles.”

  Jakob stopped in his tracks at first sight of the synagogue. It was three stories high, of white stone, set behind a court of shrubs, enclosed by an iron railing, with an arched arbor on each side that appeared like welcoming arms reaching out for its worshipers. At the front was a mosaic arch supported by two columns of marble, with rosette windows of stained glass. A high-pitched roof of varied colored slates contained decorative cupolas at each corner, and held a huge dome of green-stained copper that dominated the building. It was bold, clean, uncluttered, Byzantine in its impact.

  Inside, at first view, it seemed plain. The floor was of polished parquet, with deep, red rugs covering the aisles, and the benches were smooth oak padded with velour. The walls were unadorned except for rich tapestries hung here and there. The bimah, though, in the center, on which the reading of the Torah took place, was a jewel. Its railings were hand carved, as was the reading table, and its rug was royal purple. Then as Jakob looked up, the walls became subtly friezed with intertwined leaves and flowers which became more ornate as his eyes were irresistibly drawn up to the dome of mosaic, a field of blue with geometric designs that stood directly over the bimah. Four large, sparkling chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling to give light below.

  Although there was a balcony upstairs, the mehitzah for females, Jakob noticed with amazement that the women and children instead took seats at the rear of the synagogue behind a wooden railing. His hackles rose at the sight of them on the same floor, but he lost himself in the service once it began.

  Then it was over, everyone wishing each other Guten Shabbas and shaking hands. As they were about to leave, a member came over to Hanna and Jakob and informed them that Rabbi Gluck would like to have a few words with them. The family waited in the anteroom while Gluck spoke with Jakob, then led them both into the library and finally into the cellar. Back upstairs, they bowed formally, and then Hanna and Jakob rejoined their friends. Their eyes were shining.

  “You knew,” said Jakob to Jules, barely able to keep from dancing.

  “Yes,” replied Jules, smiling broadly. “We all knew. Mozel tov.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you all,” went on the Hasid.

  “There is no thanks needed,” said Fergl. “Do you know of anyone more highly qualified to take on the job?”

  “Certainly not,” said Hanna, almost dancing herself.

  Outside, Fergl said, “We’ll walk back this way,” and led them all down a wide alley. Halfway to the next intersection was a small bungalow, sandwiched between two apartment houses. Jules had joked that it had probably been built by a wealthy department store owner for his mistress–which had earned him a thrust in his ribs from Natalie. Fergl stopped in front of the door and held out a key to Hanna. “It’s yours,” he said simply. “As long as you want it.”

  She stood open-mouthed. “W
e cannot take it, Friedrich,” she said sadly.

  Fergl stepped closer. “Please, Hanna, Jakob. This is a mitzvah from all of us.”

  He had said the magic word. Hanna looked into the smiling faces, and then she nodded. Eagerly she unlocked the door and stepped into a small vestibule, the others crowding in behind her. To the right was a cozy parlor, a fire laid earlier in a round stove that warmed it deliciously. Comfortable couches and chairs were placed conveniently about with tables and lamps. Next was a dining room with a table able to seat six. A matching china closet and sideboard were placed against the walls. Eyes growing larger by the minute, Hanna was led down the hallway, Natalie showing where all the electric switches were located, to a fully equipped kitchen containing a kerosene stove. At the rear of the house were two bedrooms, also completely furnished. A door led to a bathroom. Hanna bit her lip from dropping at the sight of the gleaming porcelain sink and tub. In the hall was a narrow closet, holding a toilet with a pull chain.

  At the last room they let Hanna lead the way. Inside was a large desk with a matching chair, a bookcase, and, by the rear window, standing all alone, was the latest model sewing machine.

  She began crying. The others drifted away to the parlor, leaving Jakob positioned at the doorway. He slowly walked in and placed his arms around her.

  She raised a tear-streaked face to his. “Oh, Jakob, what are we going to do? It is too much.”

  He kissed her cheek, and then he went over to the desk and caressed the smooth top with his fingertips. In his mind’s eye, he could see a dozen books lying open on it. The bookcase was located just right, too.

  “At fifteen marks a week, we can afford to keep our rooms at the Rosenthal’s. Maybe we can go there weekends for a vacation.”

  The ones in the parlor suddenly heard the high peal of Hanna’s laughter, and directly behind it, Jakob’s gentle chuckle.

  Life was as close to being heaven for Hanna and Jakob as they thought possible. Jakob went at his work with a vengeance, and at Rabbi Gluck’s first inspection a month later, Jakob was told, as was the Governing Board, that the synagogue had struck the incredible combination–a marvelous idea being implemented by a mental giant. Jakob would pick up a book at random, the rabbi related, and whether it was written by a poet, philosopher, or a historian, from Babylon, Spain, or Poland, he would know the biography of the writer and most of the contents inside. Even more important was the neat, orderly, and highly understandable comments he wrote to describe what was available. Gluck had estimated that the project would take six or seven years to complete. His new calculation was four years at the most.