A Cobbler's Tale

by Neil Perry Gordon

  Moments after setting foot in the Lower East Side, they were confronted with the reality of finding a place to live and securing a job. Therefore, the creation of Landsman Societies grew in popularity because they could ease the immigrants’ many burdens.

  The Society had welcomed nearly three hundred men, women and children over the past few years. Mendel did an excellent job running it, greeting each family, and orienting them to their new life in America.

  Pincus reserved his participation in the Landsman Society of Krzywcza to presiding over the monthly meetings, making decisions concerning the cemetery, and—most important—greeting the Torah scholar families himself.

  He shared his vengeful glee with Jakob. “You should see the look in their eyes when they see me now. How the world has turned upside down!” he boasted.

  Maybe it was time to plan the trip back. I could travel first class now, never again in steerage, he thought cheerfully. I will arrive back home in triumph. The rabbi will be very proud. I am sure to get a special recognition at the shul. Maybe even a plaque in my honor.

  CHAPTER 27

  SHMUEL’S ADVENTURE

  Good evening, Shmuel. You’re right on schedule, please come inside,” said the rabbi.

  “Good evening, Rabbi,” Shmuel replied, shaking the extended hand of the eighty-year-old rabbi.

  Rabbi Shapira was the only rabbi Shmuel had ever known. This was true for most residents of the shtetl, since he had been the only rabbi of Krzywcza for the past fifty years. Shmuel could only imagine the amount of wisdom, guidance, compassion, and sympathy he had provided for his people. Now with the shtetl in an uproar about Moshe and Max, the rabbi had something to deal with that was more complicated than saying a prayer for an ailing loved one.

  With the door to his office now closed, the rabbi gestured for Shmuel to sit.

  “The boys are safe, Rabbi. They have been very well hidden,” Shmuel whispered.

  “Good, that’s good. But we can’t hide them forever. Captain Berbecki will do nothing to bring these men to justice, so we must take action.”

  The rabbi leaned toward Shmuel, grasped his hands, and said, “We need to find these men before they find Moshe and Max.”

  “I understand,” said Shmuel. “I will find them. But what then?” he asked fearfully.

  “Not so fast, Shmuel,” the rabbi said patting his cheek in a fatherly way. “You can’t find these men on your own.”

  “What do we do then, Rabbi?”

  “You will need to go to the capital city of Lviv, where the government that makes our laws is located. We have influential friends in Lviv whom I have called on from time to time for special favors. These are good men who understand the plight of our people.

  “When you arrive at the train station, you need to find this address,” he continued, handing Shmuel a piece of paper. “It’s a short walk. On the outside of the building there will be a directory of businesses. You will look for The Galician Life Insurance Company. Go to the office and tell the receptionist you are there to see Antoni.

  “When you meet with this man, tell him the events exactly as the boys told us. That’s all, nothing more,” the rabbi instructed. “This man has connections and will find out who issued the order to kill the journalist, Yitzhak Cohen. He will also know the names of the killers.” He paused.

  “Wait in Lviv as long as it takes for him to return to you with the names. Then take the train back here and report to me,” the rabbi said.

  “I will,” Shmuel agreed. “When should I leave?”

  “The first train tomorrow leaves at six a.m. And one more thing, Shmuel,” the rabbi added as both men rose from their chairs. “You must stay very alert. You may be followed. The government has eyes everywhere,” he whispered. “I want you to take this with you,” he said, handing him a long hunting knife in a leather sheath. “Just in case.”

  Shmuel didn’t sleep well at all. His bed in the rear of the cobbler shop had provided him with many restful nights, but not this night. The rabbi’s instructions kept playing over and over in his mind, alongside his responsibility for saving Moshe and Max.

  He thought about his father and brothers in America. Just a few days earlier, he had received a letter from his father. He sat up, lit a candle on the shelf next to his straw mattress, and reached for the letter that he’d tucked into a book he was reading by the writer and historian Wilhelm Feldman, who believed that Jews had no future in Galicia.

  Father’s letters typically were very long and detailed accounts of his new life in America. Shmuel read about how he had found Pincus and how well he was doing. He described with joy his involvement in organizing the Landsman Society of Krzywcza. “This is the most important work of my life,” he wrote.

  The letter finished with his father reminding Shmuel to visit his mother’s grave often. “Place stones upon her gravestone for your brothers and me,” he asked.

  Shmuel paused for a moment, allowing his mind to drift to thoughts of his mother. Her last few years, he had watched her suffer and wither to a thin, frail woman. When death came, it was a welcome relief. Shmuel smiled at the thought of her. She had taught him not only how to live, but how to die.

  Shmuel found himself ready and pacing the empty station floor well before the six o’clock train. Just as he heard the whistle of the approaching train, a man joined him on the platform. The man wore a long dark coat. A similarly dark hat shadowed his eyes, and both hands were buried deep into his pockets. He carried no luggage.

  Shmuel nervously boarded the train and walked through the connecting cars. He paused and stuck his head out to look over the platform but saw no one. The stranger must have boarded. The rabbi did tell me that I might be followed, he reminded himself.

  The train slowly left the station for the two-hour journey to Lviv. He settled in to a rear-facing bench. Better to see anyone approaching, he figured. He thought of how his life had taken some dramatic turns in the past few years, and of the task at hand. For assurance, he nervously ran his fingers over the rabbi’s hunting knife that was now tucked into his pocket.

  The journey ended uneventfully, and the train pulled into the Lviv station right on time. Shmuel adjusted the brown coat that his mother had made for him. He brushed his long hair back with his fingers, musing that if his mother were still alive, she would be urging him to get a haircut.

  He stepped off the train and onto the platform. Unlike the station at Krzywcza, Lviv station had dozens of travelers stirring about. Shmuel looked for the stranger, but no one else seemed to have disembarked. Maybe I’m worried over nothing, he thought. He asked a ticket agent for directions into the city center.

  This trip to Lviv was the first time he had ventured outside the village of Krzywcza. Under the circumstances, he knew not to get too excited, but he couldn’t help feeling in awe of his surroundings. He followed the directions from the train station, walking along the cobblestone streets lined with the tallest buildings he had ever seen. He nearly bumped into people clogging the sidewalks as he gawked in amazement.

  “This is it,” he said looking at the paper and then again at the sign on the building: THE GALICIAN LIFE INSURANCE COMPANY. He entered the building and stood before a wooden staircase the likes of which he had never seen. The ones he knew back home were narrow and warped. But the staircase leading up to the Galician Life Insurance Company was wide and grand, with carved mahogany handrails. He could feel the solid wood with each step. These stairs don’t creak like the ones in my Dad’s old home, he thought.

  Upon reaching the landing, he turned the large brass door-knob and entered. A woman sitting at a desk looked at him and asked rudely, “What do you want?”

  “I am here to see Antoni,” he said softly.

  “Antoni?” She seemed startled. “One moment, please. Take a seat,” she said, pointing to a chair against the wall. “What is your name?”

  “Shmuel Beck.”

  “One moment please,” she said as she rose to open a
door behind her and went inside.

  She reappeared in a few seconds. “Mr. Beck, please come in.”

  He got to his feet, took a deep breath and entered the office.

  “Hello Shmuel,” said a deep baritone voice.

  Sitting at an elaborately carved wooden desk sat a very plump man with a round face and deep-set light blue eyes. The largest collection of books that Shmuel had ever seen covered the entire wall behind him.

  “You made my assistant nervous when you said you were here to see Antoni,” the man said.

  “Oh, I am sorry sir, I was told to ask for Antoni when I got here. Are you not Antoni?”

  “There is no Antoni.” The man laughed. “Let’s just say it’s a name that opens my door. My name is Mr. Chmura. Now tell me Shmuel, why are you here? Who sent you?”

  “Sir, Rabbi Shapira sent me here to ask for your help.” His voice shook as he revealed his secret to this stranger.

  “There’s no need to be nervous, Shmuel. I’ve known the rabbi for over forty years. I am probably his best friend who is not a Jew.” He smiled again. “So tell me, why has the rabbi sent you to see me?”

  Shmuel discovered that, in addition to large buildings, Lviv also provides its residents with a beautiful park in the city center. Once he had told Mr. Chmura his story and explained the reason for his visit, Mr. Chmura had told him to wait in the park by the fountain. It might take several hours, Mr. Chmura had warned, but once he knew something, he would send someone to fetch Shmuel and bring him back to his office.

  Shmuel amused himself by watching the geese scuttle their goslings around the grassy areas. A few unsuspecting pedestrians were hissed at by the overly protective birds if they walked too close.

  The hours passed and the sun started to set over the buildings to the west. He hoped someone would come soon, so he could learn the names of these men and catch the evening train back home.

  Shmuel was sitting on a bench watching some boys around his age playing a game that involved knocking down the player carrying the ball. He had never seen this game played before, but it looked like fun.

  He became so focused on the game that he didn’t notice a man had joined him on the bench. Shmuel looked over and to his shock he recognized the coat and hat. He had completely forgotten the suspicious man on the train this morning.

  The man turned his face, which featured a long pinkish scar on his left cheek. His wide-set eyes had the devastating effect of paralyzing Shmuel. He leaned over and said, “Stand up slowly and walk with me.”

  Too frightened to speak, Shmuel rose and walked out of the park with the stranger.

  CHAPTER 28

  LUCHOW’S

  Where have you been? Seeing that redhead?” Pincus asked with a little smirk.

  “Actually, yes. Sorry I’m a little late.”

  “You had a very interesting visitor stop by.”

  “Already? It’s only eight thirty.”

  “He was waiting for me when I came down at eight to open. He asked for you directly. Looked very well off to me. Came in a motorcar with a driver. Here, he gave me his card,” Pincus said handing it to Jakob.

  Jakob didn’t need to look at the card, but he did anyway. He didn’t want Pincus to suspect anything, not that he thought it would matter much. Pincus must have had some idea of the illicit activities going on in his shop on a daily basis.

  “Leo Gorpatsch,” he read. “Are those his shoes?” he asked pointing to a shoe bag lying on the counter.

  “Yes, he wants me to make him a new pair of shoes. He said just to copy the style of these,” Pincus said, excitedly removing the shoes from the bag. “I haven’t made a new pair of shoes in years.”

  “That’s great, Pincus,” he said, patting him on the back and watching him disappear with the shoes in hand into his workroom in the back. Jakob appreciated his ignorance of the obvious. As long as he is making money, he just doesn’t care, Jakob realized.

  Jakob settled in for another day in the shop. But he couldn’t shake the mystery of why Leo Gorpatsch would come here. We haven’t seen each other once since that first meeting in his office. Not even a visit from the mustached man or one of his goons. Perhaps I am doing his bidding through Manny. But I do need to get inside. Captain Becker will be asking for information sooner or later.

  Still holding the card, he flipped it over, and hand written across the back he read: Luchow’s tonight 9:00.

  “Luchow’s,” he whispered. “Why there?”

  Just then, the front door opened and a gentleman entered. Jakob tucked the card in his pocket and greeted the man.

  As he turned the corner that evening, he spotted Luchow’s and smiled at the scene of the luxury motorcars dropping off glamorous patrons who milled on the sidewalk before entering. Just long enough to be seen.

  He stepped into the gaggle of the city’s elite with confidence. I may not be rich, but I look good, he thought, adjusting his suit jacket. He smiled, thinking of the last time he’d wore his suit, just a few weeks ago when he had met Nita here.

  Squeezing through the crowd, he entered the smoke-filled establishment. The maître d’ greeted him. “Yes, sir, how may I be of assistance?”

  “I am here to see Mr. Gorpatsch,” he said.

  “Mr. Gorpatsch is dining here, yes. But why would I disturb him?” asked the maître d’.

  “Because Mr. Gorpatsch is expecting me,” he answered. Jakob produced the card and turned it over to show the note on the back.

  After disappearing for a few minutes, the maître d’ returned. “Right this way, Mr. Adler,” he said smiling.

  Jakob followed the man through a zigzag of many tables. He saw the table where he had sat with Nita. Now an older couple sat there, sipping Champagne.

  “Sir, please,” the maître d’ instructed Jakob to enter a private dining room.

  “Thank you,” Jakob replied and stepped in.

  A large round table filled the room. Smoke billowed in large clouds. Who are all these people? he wondered. At first glance he couldn’t see Gorpatsch. Then he heard him.

  “Jakob, you came,” said Gorpatsch turning around in his chair. “Please take a seat next to me. I’m pleased you are here.”

  Jakob sat in the empty chair. He scanned the table, nodding greetings.

  “Jakob, let me introduce you to my date. This is the fabulous singer and star of Broadway, Nita Naldi.”

  Gorpatsch leaned back in his chair so Jakob could see her sitting on his other side. Her red hair was swept up in an elegant bun, and she had allowed a few curls to fall along either side of her beautiful face. Her full red lips were moving, saying something.

  “It is very nice to meet you, Jakob,” she said, offering a slightly limp, delicate hand.

  Jakob took her hand, leaned awkwardly across Gorpatsch, and kissed it gently.

  “Enough of that,” Gorpatsch boomed, slapping Jakob on the back.

  Leaning back in his chair, Jakob took another peek at Nita. Her neck and shoulders were exposed with her hair pinned up. While she made his blood boil with passion, Gorpatsch made it boil with hatred. There he sat, blocking him from the woman for whom he would do anything.

  “Jakob,” Gorpatsch said, turning to look at him. “Thank you for coming. I need to speak with you. Come, there is an office in the back where we can talk quietly.” He stood up and signaled with his hand for Jakob to follow.

  As they crossed the restaurant, many people greeted Gorpatsch with waves and nods, and a few men stood up to shake his hand.

  Does he own this place too? Jakob wondered as he followed Gorpatsch through a door marked PRIVATE.

  After closing the door, Gorpatsch sat on one of two chairs positioned in front of a desk. “Sit, Jakob,” he said pointing to the other chair. “This is my friend’s office. He lets me use it.”

  Jakob looked around the office and saw nothing unusual, except there were no windows. One way in and out, Jakob observed. Let’s hope I don’t need to make a forceful exit.<
br />
  “Okay, you’re probably wondering why I asked you to come here, of all places.”

  Jakob nodded and smiled.

  Gorpatsch took out a cigar and offered one to Jakob.

  “Here, allow me,” Gorpatsch, said taking back the cigar. He pulled out a shiny chrome cutter, lopped off its end, and handed back it to Jakob. A silver lighter appeared in Gorpatsch’s hand, and, with the deftness of a magician, he made it glow with a blue flame. Jakob leaned in, took a few quick puffs, and the cigar lit. Their smoke intermingled as they exhaled silently.

  “That’s a beautiful lighter,” Jakob said.

  “It’s from Paris. Look how they engraved my initial,” Gorpatsch said, showing Jakob the stylized G emblazoned on each side.

  “Elegant,” Jakob added.

  “Jakob, I like you. You’re smart and resourceful,” he said. Jakob looked at him with open palms and shrugged shoulders. “We only met once.”

  “I get reports from Manny. He tells me you are doing very well.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Jakob.

  “I have a job I need done, and I believe you’re the right man.” He paused to take a drag on the cigar and leaned back to blow the smoke into the clouds swirling above them. “Jakob, have you heard of the Eastman Gang?”

  “I have not.”

  “The Eastman Gang is led by Edward Eastman, a Jew. He came here a few years ago from a small town not far from Warsaw. His men call him the Monk. Don’t know why, doesn’t matter. What does matter is that he is a pain in my ass.”

  Jakob sat quietly, listening and wondering where this would lead.

  “The Eastman Gang runs a few rackets, just like me. You would think that there is enough business for all of us, but not the Monk. He has been making some aggressive moves lately. There have been some . . . let’s say, some physical encounters between my men and his. What I would like you to do is to reach out to the Monk. Set up a meeting, so we can talk.”