A Cobbler's Tale

by Neil Perry Gordon

  A COBBLER’S TALE

  ———A Novel———

  NEIL PERRY GORDON

  Copyright © 2018 by Neil Perry Gordon

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address the author at NeilPerryGordon@gmail.com or find him online at

  www.NeilPerryGordon.com.

  Cover and interior design by Tabitha Lahr

  Published 2018

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-7326677-0-9

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-7326677-1-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018910645

  For Alla, my love and muse.

  Your tears touch my soul.

  CHAPTER 1

  VIOLENT SEAS, JULY 1910

  The SS Amerika sailed up through the Elbe River and an hour later entered the mighty North Sea. Pincus tried to make himself comfortable on his bunk of steel pipes with stained and tattered fabric stretched over its framework.

  The gentle motion of the seas and the humming of the steamship’s engines encouraged the weary Pincus to doze off. His desire for a restful night’s sleep was dashed as he awoke to a violent tremor and devastating explosions of waves crashing against the ship’s hull.

  Trying to assess the assault on his senses, he looked around and saw others gawking at the horrors as they clung to the railings of their bunks.

  “What is this?” Pincus cried, as a few men with poor grips fell off their beds like rag dolls. Pincus could see the faces of men screaming, but their voices were inaudible over the sea’s fury upon the steamship Amerika.

  Beads of warm sweat started as a slow trickle down his forehead and slender nose. Am I getting seasick? Pincus wondered. Nausea washed over him, along with a devastating hopelessness. His eyes stung as the sweat gushed out of him. He wanted to rub it away, but he did not want to loosen his iron grip.

  The ship’s jerking motion was too much for Pincus to keep down his dinner. He launched the simmering contents of his stomach as a projectile that spewed from deep inside his throat and landed on the floor below his upper bunk. He wasn’t alone either. His fellow neophytes joined in the action. Regurgitated stews of meat and potatoes coated the floor.

  Men were praying to Hashem—to God—for relief from their suffering. Lanterns swayed back and forth, creating eerie patterns of darkness and light. Just as he thought that nothing but death itself could be worse, a warm, malodorous cloud rose from the boiling bile from the floor below, and with every laboring breath, he felt the smell of sickness enter his lungs. He moved in and out of consciousness as his misery deepened.

  Then he felt coolness seep into his brain. As he struggled to open his eyes, a man’s face was inches away, his hand applying a wet rag to Pincus’s forehead.

  “I need to get you up on deck,” said the stranger.

  “I can’t move,” moaned Pincus, as he tried to raise his shoulders.

  “Don’t try. I’ll carry you,” said the man, as he lifted him off the sweat-soaked bed.

  Cradled in the arms of the giant man, Pincus asked, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Up on deck. You need to hang onto me.”

  Pincus wrapped his arms around the man’s sturdy neck and muscular chest. The man lifted Pincus up and walked through the metal hatch door. Traversing the maze of narrow doorways and metal staircases, they made their way topside. Moments later, with Pincus draped over the stranger’s back like a sack of dirty laundry, they burst out onto the main deck.

  Still hanging on to the stranger’s back, he saw dozens of other seasick passengers from steerage. Those immune to seasickness were providing comfort to the suffering. Although the ship still heaved from the churning black sea, it was a relief to inhale the sweet smell of the salt water.

  The man found a spot to prop up Pincus along a wooden storage box that blocked the sharp winds.

  “Here, you need to eat something,” the man said, as he handed him a piece of bread from his coat pocket. Pincus, unused to such kindness from a stranger, thanked him as he took small bites from the stale, crusty loaf.

  As the nausea settled and some color returned to his pale complexion, Pincus worried whether he could manage a ten-day voyage. What he feared most was that he would become ill, fail the medical inspection at Ellis Island, and then be shipped back to Hamburg in steerage again.

  Pincus looked up at the large man who had easily carried him up from the bowels of the ship. He figured that this fellow had to be at least 200 pounds, much more than his slight, 135-pound frame.

  “Who are you, and why are you helping me?” asked Pincus.

  “My name is Jakob Adler, and you’re sick. I’m well and able to help,” explained Jakob, with a comforting smile.

  Pincus held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Jakob. My name is Pincus. Thank you.”

  Jakob reached out to shake the smaller man’s hand. “You’re welcome, Pincus.”

  Pincus removed his glasses and pulled a cloth from his coat pocket. He cleaned off bits of bile still clinging to their frame before repositioning them on his slender nose. They gave him a better view of Jakob Adler’s imposing figure. With his short curly brown hair, large catlike emerald eyes, and small nose, Pincus doubted he was a Jew. His imposing stature was impressive, but he seemed approachable, almost gentle.

  “I don’t think I have ever felt so sick!”

  “That was rough. You should rest here. I wouldn’t go back to steerage until it’s cleaned up,” said Jakob. “Where are you from?”

  “I’m from Krzywcza,” said Pincus. “It’s in Galicia.”

  “I’m from Warsaw.”

  “I’ve never been there.” He sat up and looked out into the dark sky. “Actually, this is the first time I have left Krzywcza,” Pincus added.

  “We are both leaving our homeland for a new life in America,” said Jakob.

  “Krzywcza is not my homeland anymore,” whispered Pincus, afraid of who might be listening. He leaned over so Jakob could hear him and continued in an audible whisper. “Jews are being forced to emigrate. They want us to leave the country.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m Jewish too, and I’m going to America to escape religious persecution and economic hardship so I can be safe and earn a living.”

  “You’re a Jew?”

  “I am, Pincus, and I hope to settle and establish a business in New York. What about you?”

  “I’m a cobbler. I want to open a business.”

  “Maybe we can look out for each other, help out. It’s good to have friends,” Jakob said, smiling.

  “It sure is,” Pincus said, trying to manage a smile in return.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE DECISION

  Pincus quickly folded a letter and placed it under the counter as the door to his shop opened. It was Mendel Beck, who needed to push his way through by leaning against the heavy door with his shoulder. In his hands he carried several pairs of black leather shoes.

  Mendel was a friend whom Pincus had known since they were children growing up together in the shtetl. They had many fond boyhood memories of running and playing together in the forest surrounding the town. Their paths in life had diverged when the boys turned thirteen. Pincus had begun his apprenticeship under his father, learning how to repair shoes, while Mendel had continued his Torah studies as a scholar in the study hall known as the beit midrash.

  “Pincus, wh
en will you fix this door before it kills someone?” pleaded Mendel, dropping the shoes on the countertop.

  “What for?” Pincus said, more as a statement than as a question.

  Mendel tilted his head and smirked at his good friend as if he understood. “Any news from Hersch?”

  “Good timing,” he said, as he reached for the letter he had just hidden and held it up for Mendel to see. “Just arrived today.” Pincus smiled and handed the letter to Mendel. “He says I should come.”

  Mendel squinted at the words on the weathered page. “Can I bring it to the light? It’s so dark in here.”

  Pincus’s slight hand gesture indicated that was fine.

  Hersch was Pincus’s cousin, the son of his uncle Benjamin, a carpenter who had emigrated to America seven years earlier, which now seemed like a lifetime ago. Right before he left, Hersch had pleaded with Pincus to go with him.

  “Clara isn’t ready to emigrate,” Pincus had said sadly, as he removed his glasses to polish the lenses with a soft cloth that was tucked inside his cobbler’s apron pocket.

  “Pincus, you need to convince her. Things will only get worse here—you’ll see. In America you can proudly be a Jew and make money. I hear that the streets are paved with gold,” Mendel had said, with a great smile that seemed to occupy his entire round face.

  “Yes, I know. That’s what everyone says,” Pincus had replied. “I want to leave here. I do.”

  Every year since Hersch’s departure, Pincus had received a letter from him, and every year Pincus had read it, folded it, and placed it under the worn wooden counter. After each letter, he would torment himself with the same questions. Was he putting off the inevitable? Would life in America be easier? What would the future hold for his family if he didn’t go?

  But Pincus knew that ignoring the facts would prove to be foolish. He had been reading and hearing reports that the government, feeling the pressure of the poor economic conditions, was blaming the Jews again for the plight of its citizens. Rumors had spread that the Jews were destroying the very fabric of life in the region. They were the cause of the troubles, and if they left the country, the other citizens’ problems would cease.

  Mendel returned to the counter and handed the letter back to Pincus. “He says you should come.”

  Pincus placed a hand on his cheek, looked at Mendel’s bearded face, and said, “Maybe it’s time. But Clara is pregnant, and it would be a bad time for her to take such a long sea voyage.”

  “You know, Pincus, many men go alone first to establish themselves. Find work and a place to live and then come back for their family once they’re settled,” Mendel advised.

  Pincus nodded as he thought about what his friend had said.

  Mendel continued, “The ticket agent for the shipping line will be in town again soon. You should purchase your ticket to America. I wish I could go with you. Sara is very ill and I can’t leave her. But you should go.”

  As Mendel left the shop, Pincus decided he would tell Clara soon. This would not be easy. He had tried many times to bring up the possibility of emigration, but Clara was frightened of uprooting her family and moving to a country whose calling card was that the streets were paved with gold.

  “Only a fool would believe that,” she would say.

  As he locked up his little shop, he took a moment to scan the place where he had spent nearly ten hours a day, six days a week, for the past twenty-three years, taking time off only for Shabbat. The gas lamplight flickered on the wooden shelves that lined the walls, filled with the backlog of shoe repairs for his loyal customers. The trade was good to him and his family. He would benefit from these skills in the New World, because people always needed their shoes repaired.

  As Pincus walked home that night through the town he had known his entire life, he believed that he was ready to leave Krzywcza. One reason was that he was not well liked by the other Jewish men in the shtetl. He had tried for years to get elected to the kahal, an exclusive Jewish community council that oversaw civil and religious affairs. But as a tradesman and not a scholar, he was not accepted into that elite segment of Jewish society. He would complain to Clara, “They mock me by bringing me their dirty, worn-out shoes.”

  I have been dishonored enough. I am going to America. Clara must understand, Pincus insisted to himself. But he knew that this argument would not convince Clara. He would need to explain the logical reasons for going. He practiced the words out loud.

  “Clara,” he began, using his arms to orchestrate his intentions, “it is time we emigrated to America. Life here is bad and will only get worse. But I must go alone and establish a business and a residence for us. Then, in one year, I will come back for you and the children.”

  It was a ten-minute walk to the Potasznik family home, the deed to which Pincus had inherited when his mother, Sussti, had passed away a year earlier. Four years before that, his father had died of a heart attack right in his cobbler’s shop while polishing the shoes of the rabbi, of all people.

  Pincus liked the house. It was considered large for the neighborhood and could comfortably accommodate his pregnant wife, Clara; his eldest daughter, Jennie, age eleven; Moshe, the middle child, a fun-loving nine-year-old; and the baby, Hymie, who was just two.

  Also living at home was his mother-in-law, Sadie. A snarl twisted his lips when he thought of her. She feasted on challenging Pincus at every opportunity. This news would certainly send her into a frenzy he would prefer to avoid.

  Just like the other men in the shtetl, Sadie did not show the respect he believed he deserved. Not only that, she poisoned Clara’s mind whenever she could. Just a few evenings earlier, Pincus had arrived home late, forcing the family to wait for him before they sat down for dinner.

  As he walked in the front door, Sadie started in on him. “Well, look who’s decided to show up.”

  “Sorry I’m late. I met Mendel on the way home, and we got talking about America,” Pincus said.

  “America again, Pincus? When will you get it through your head that this idea is nothing but a fantasy?” Sadie insisted.

  “It’s no fantasy, Sadie. My cousin Hersch sends me letters and tells me how wonderful life is there.”

  “You’re a fool, Pincus. Now, sit down so we can finally eat. Your children are hungry,” Sadie concluded, dismissing his words with a flick of her wrist.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE RABBI’S SUPPORT

  Two weeks later, Mendel returned with news: “The ticket agent for the Hamburg-Amerika Line will be making rounds through Krzywcza in a few days.”

  “Good, I’ve been waiting,” Pincus said, holding up the bank notes he needed to secure his passage.

  “When are you telling Clara?” Mendel asked.

  “Tonight, for sure.”

  “You told me that a few weeks ago!” Mendel said with a smirk.

  “I know, I know,” he said nervously. “But I really must tell her tonight. My mother-in-law will be out with the Schechter’s parents. They’re going to hear a lecture from some Yiddish writer at the firemen’s hall. I don’t want her around when I tell Clara.”

  “Good luck, Pincus. You’re going to need it!”

  Pincus glanced up at the cloudless evening sky and was relieved the rains had finally stopped. For the first time in days, he could walk home without getting soaked. But, on the bright side, the heavy rains had been good for business.

  As his father used to say, “When the streets are muddy, we rejoice.”

  The last few days had been very busy, as many of his regular customers had dropped off their mud-caked shoes for repairs or polishing or both.

  His father, Scheindl, had begun Pincus’s education in the cobbler trade when he turned thirteen. Even before his apprenticeship had begun, he had often watched his dad replace a heel or a sole. By the time he picked up a razor, a knife, and a file or tried his hand on the sewing machine, he already knew the basic skills of shoe repair.

  During their days working side by side,
his father amused Pincus with interesting stories about their customers.

  “You can learn many things about a person by their shoes, Pincus,” instructed his father. “You see that young man who just left here? He has ambition. He wants to be an important man one day.”

  “How do you know that, Papa?”

  Pointing for effect with a sharp razor used for shaping leather soles, his father explained, “That was Josef the tailor, a young man just starting out in business. He has only one good pair of shoes. He brings them in every Thursday and waits patiently for me to polish them. Did you notice they really don’t need it every week? That means he always wants to look his best. That’s a sign of an ambitious man.”

  His father’s favorite expression was “The best way to understand the soul of a man is by examining his sole,” which always got a smile from Pincus.

  He continued, “Repairing shoes is an honorable profession and will always put food in our family’s bellies and a roof over their heads. Never take this trade for granted.”

  “Why are some tombstones the shape of shoes?” Pincus asked.

  “When the Messiah comes, Hashem will command the resurrection of the dead, and they will need shoes for their journey back to Zion,” his father replied.

  Pincus also learned that, according to the code of Jewish law, when a Jew puts on his shoes, the right shoe always goes on first.

  “When you’re tying your shoes, the left one is always first,” his father said. “When you take them off, the left shoe is also first. This is because the right foot is more important than the left. So, the right foot should not remain uncovered while the left is covered.”

  He father concluded, “You must remember not to insult your customers by ignoring these customs.”

  Being respectful of his shoes and of his father, Pincus carefully avoided a few deep mud puddles and several shallow ones during his ten-minute walk home. After dozens of mini-detours around the muck, Pincus found himself standing at the front door of the shul. He had told no one except Mendel about his plan to emigrate to America. Maybe I should talk to the rabbi before I talk to Clara, he mused.