A Cobbler's Tale

by Neil Perry Gordon

  “You want me to set up a meeting between you and someone called the Monk?” Jakob asked, bewildered.

  “Sounds crazy, yeah, I know.” Gorpatsch laughed. “But, yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do.”

  “Suppose I agree to do this, how would I find him? I have no idea where to start.”

  “That’s the easy part. You just ask around. Try the men making drops in the shop. I bet some of them would know. Listen, you’re a clever guy. I’m sure with a few questions here and there, you’ll find him, and when you do, set up this meeting in a neutral place. Each of us can bring one man, no more, and no weapons. He’ll agree just out of curiosity.”

  “Okay, I guess I can do that. But what’s in it for me?”

  “I’ll give you a hundred dollars now and another hundred after we have the meeting. Is that acceptable?” he said, handing Jakob an envelope.

  “That’s acceptable,” Jakob said, taking a peek at the cash and hoping he would not regret it.

  CHAPTER 29

  CLARA AND THE CAPTAIN

  The rabbi had told Clara about Shmuel’s mission to identify the killers. He’d said that he should be back in a day or two at the most. She paced the kitchen slapping a wooden spoon against the open palm of her left hand, over and over.

  “It’s been five days now. Something is wrong. Why would the rabbi send Shmuel? He’s just a boy,” she told her mother.

  Sadie rocked back and forth in her chair, as nervous as her daughter. “I’m worried about Moshe, stuck in the basement day and night. It’s not good, Clara,” she lamented.

  “It’s better than being dead, Mother,” she screamed and walked into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  She fell onto her bed, buried her face in the pillow, and wept. Her body heaved uncontrollably. Flipping over onto her back, she realized she was still holding on to the wooden spoon, which she now flung to the floor.

  I need to figure this out, but how?

  She didn’t trust the rabbi’s judgment anymore. What if I plead to Captain Berbecki for help? Why would he allow harm to come to Moshe and Max? They are innocent boys. She stood up, straightened her dress, brushed her hair, and told her mother she would be back soon.

  During the ten-minute walk to the police station, she had a flood of thoughts. I’ll beg him to help us. There must be some humanity in the man. But as she stepped through the front door of the station, she had no idea what she would say.

  “I’m here to see the captain,” she said to the sergeant.

  “Hello, Mrs. Potasznik. This is not a good time to see the captain. Please come back tomorrow.”

  “I must see Captain Berbecki,” she demanded and walked past the sergeant to the captain’s office door.

  “Mrs. Potasznik, please, you cannot just walk in,” he pleaded.

  Ignoring the sergeant, she opened the door and saw Berbecki sitting at his desk staring at her. The sun, low in the afternoon sky, filtered in through his window and fell on his face, giving his blue eyes a disarming sparkle.

  “Welcome, Clara. You look upset. Please sit down and tell me, what’s the problem?”

  “What’s the problem?” she stammered. Did he just call me Clara? Perhaps I’ve been too forthcoming with my behavior. I don’t want to give him the wrong impression.

  Gathering her wits, she continued, “You know all too well what the problem is. I need to know how you plan on arresting those two men who are still out there.”

  “Not to worry. We are investigating the murder and following some good leads now. I would expect to have the murderers in custody soon.”

  “Oh, is that true, Captain?”

  “Of course, it’s true, Clara,” he said with an unusual smile.

  She took a breath to calm herself. But the captain’s uncharacteristic demeanor disarmed her, and she wanted to leave. “Oh, that’s very good news,” she said, turning to the door.

  “Wait, Clara, where are you going so fast? Please sit down, relax, have a drink with me.”

  A bottle of Vishniak sat on his desk. He poured some in an empty glass, stood up from his desk, and handed her the drink as he offered her a chair.

  He’s been drinking, she realized. That’s why he is calling me Clara.

  “No, I can’t stay. I left my mother alone with the children, and Moshe is not safe. I need to go back right away.”

  “Clara, stop worrying. I can help you,” he said, walking to his office door behind her and closing it. “With your husband gone, you must be lonely for a man,” he said with a slight slur.

  “No, Captain. You have been drinking. I must go home.”

  Berbecki took a step closer. She could now smell him, his sweat, his breath, and his lust. “Give me a kiss, Clara. No harm comes to the boys.”

  “No!” she screamed and shoved him. The inebriated captain, taken by surprise, tripped over a table piled high with files. He crashed to the floor along with the contents of the table. Clara watched in horror, then turned to the door, opened it, and fled the police station as Berbecki called her name. She ran home, now fearing for her own life as well as Moshe’s.

  CHAPTER 30

  SHMUEL’S PLIGHT

  He couldn’t stop staring at the man’s scar. In the bright sunlight it looked pink, but here in the darkened room it took on a more sinister brownish color. Shmuel imagined the man had earned it in a knife fight.

  “Listen carefully, Shmuel,” said the man, who sat in an identical chair across from him, their knees almost touching. “Let me tell you what is going to happen.”

  Shmuel, his hands and legs bound to a wooden armchair, asked, “Are you going to kill me?”

  “It all depends on you,” said the stranger.

  Tears welled up and cascaded down Shmuel’s flushed cheeks.

  The man now leaned in, his hands clasping his bony thighs. “Shmuel, we know everything. We know Rabbi Shapira sent you to meet with Mr. Chmura and find out the names of those two men accused of the murder of that Jew journalist. But this will not happen. You will take the train back home with me. Then you will go to the rabbi and tell him that Mr. Chmura couldn’t help you.”

  “But I need to know the names. They want to kill Moshe and Max,” he protested.

  “You don’t seem to understand who you are dealing with. There are powerful men involved here, and they need to be protected. These accused men can lead back to them, and that can’t be allowed to happen,” he explained. He stood up, walked to the corner of the room, and grabbed a hammer lying on a table, as Shmuel watched in fear.

  “Shmuel, tell me, do you write with your right or left hand?”

  “Why do you want to know that?” he asked, looking at the hammer in the skinny man’s hand.

  Shmuel tried shaking his bindings loose. If only I could free myself, I could run away and escape, he thought. But the ropes were too tight, so he had no choice but to resign himself to the inevitable. “Right hand,” he answered.

  “I’m not a cruel man,” said the man with the scar as he smashed the hammer down upon Shmuel’s left hand, shattering flesh and bones.

  Shmuel screamed. He could see his blood pooling in the round indentation caused by the hammer’s violent impact. He tried again but was unable to loosen his bonds, and the man was still talking.

  “I want you to know this is serious. If you want to live, you will do what I say. Moshe and Max are most likely dead already. Why risk your life too?” he said, wiping the blood off the hammer with an old cotton rag.

  Shmuel felt no pain in his numb hand. He watched in horror as his blood continued to flow and drip on the floor. A wave of dizziness washed over him. Then he was unconscious.

  From far away he heard the words, “Shmuel, wake up.”

  A sharp slap across his face brought him back. He opened his eyes and there stood Mr. Chmura. “We need to get you out of here.”

  Shmuel watched as Mr. Chmura released his restraints and wrapped a bandage around his injured hand.

&nbs
p; “Can you stand?” he asked.

  “Yes, I think so.” He looked down and saw the man with the scar lying on the ground with a growing puddle of blood around his head. “What happened?”

  “He’s dead,” said Mr. Chmura. “I shot him. We must go. Quickly now.”

  Mr. Chmura turned to another man. “Get rid of the body.”

  The man nodded.

  Once outside in the bright sunlight, Shmuel saw a wagon waiting for him. Mr. Chmura motioned him inside.

  Shmuel gingerly stepped into the cab. Mr. Chmura followed and shouted to the driver, “Let’s go.”

  Once underway, Mr. Chmura said, “I am taking you to a doctor. He will look at your hand. You will stay with me for a few days.”

  Shmuel could feel the pain now. His hand throbbed under the blood-soaked gauze wrapped around it. He winced. “Did you get the names?”

  “You are a brave young man, Shmuel,” Mr. Chmura said, offering a comforting smile. “I got the names. I’ll tell you more in the morning. Right now, you need to see a doctor and then get some rest.”

  CHAPTER 31

  LEO’S STORY

  I’m testing him,” Leo Gorpatsch told his wife, Freida. “I could have any one of my guys set up a meeting with the Monk, but let’s see how he does.”

  Leo liked bouncing ideas off his wife. She had proven to be a good listener as well as having a steel-trap memory. She was like a living file cabinet, he boasted.

  They’d had had a good marriage over ten years and produced two fine children. As he had built his career in Warsaw and then Berlin, and eventually here in New York, she understood her role. In particular, he appreciated that she never questioned his numerous infidelities—though the latest one with the singer Nita Naldi had become scandalous. The gossip columnist Blanche Sweet had seen the two of them at Luchow’s more than once. When Freida had discovered this particular indiscretion, she had communicated her distress by leaving the newspaper open to the gossip column in plain sight for him to see when he sat down for dinner. He, of course, dismissed the affront by casually folding the newspaper and pouring himself a glass of wine.

  It was true that the Eastman Gang had been challenging his business interests in the Lower East Side. There was indeed cause for concern. The Monk had raised the level of violence even beyond Gorpatsch’s notorious methods. Of course, Leo would need to respond in kind.

  It had started with a disagreement over some territory. Edward “the Monk” Eastman, looking to expand his operation north of Hester Street, had sent his men to make the rounds on Grand Street. These businesses had complained to Gorpatsch’s men, resulting in some beatings of the Monk’s men. The Eastman Gang had retaliated by setting fires to stores on Grand Street.

  Such was the cost of doing business, Gorpatsch knew. Then again, he did admire the Monk, about twenty years his junior. Leo liked the upstart’s ambition. His spunk reminded Leo of his younger days.

  His career had begun over thirty years earlier in Warsaw. He’d gotten his start working for the Tsvi Midal, an outfit that lured Jewish women from shtetls with offers of a chance to work for wealthy Jews in Argentina. Once they arrived in Argentina, they were forced into prostitution.

  As a young, well-dressed, handsome, young Jewish man, Gorpatsch traveled from village to village, placing posters in local synagogues advertising a rosy future for young Jewish girls. Frightened parents, many financially desperate, would send their daughters away with Gorpatsch in hopes of a better life for them.

  Gorpatsch brought the girls back to Warsaw where their training as prostitutes began. Next, they were taken by train to Hamburg where they were boarded on a steamship for Buenos Aires, Argentina. Once they arrived, they were brought to brothels, some housing as many as sixty to eighty sex slaves.

  After a few years, and with some money to his name, Gorpatsch moved on from the Tsvi Midal to start his own business. The idea came to him after speaking with several of the merchants along the shopping boulevard in his Jewish neighborhood in Warsaw. They had a common complaint. The local police demanded weekly payments in exchange for their so-called protection. But when they called on the police for help, they never came.

  “I will start a Jewish merchant protection business, Freida,” he said, pointing out his apartment window to the street below. “They need my help. For a modest monthly fee, I will offer real protection. Jews protecting Jews.”

  “How will you protect them from the police?” she asked with concern.

  “That’s easy. I’ll pay off the captain in our precinct. He’ll make more money this way with no effort. I’ll be doing him a favor,” he said, gesturing with open arms.

  CHAPTER 32

  JAKOB MEETS THE MONK

  It didn’t take long to meet the Monk. Jakob followed Gorpatsch’s suggestion and asked some of the shadier characters making their drops. He struck gold with Michael Malone.

  “Hey Michael, would you happen to know a guy they call the Monk?” Jakob asked.

  “The Monk? I may know him. Why do you ask?” Michael asked suspiciously.

  Jakob leaned over the counter filled with tagged shoes ready for repair and whispered, “I’ve been advised by a business associate that we ought to meet. The cobbler business is no road to riches, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sure, Jakob, I know what you mean. I can introduce you to the Monk. He buys liquor from my uncle for his establishments. You know, those private clubs with the girls,” he said with a sly smile. “I do the deliveries. The Monk is there sometimes. He counts the cases and pays me. Why don’t you tag along next time? Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  His opportunity came a few days later, when he was instructed to meet Michael at the warehouse on 22 Orchard Street.

  “Come tonight at ten. There’s a side door that says Malone & Sons. Knock hard on the door. It’s hard to hear anything inside.”

  Later that evening, Jakob stood on a dark street in front of the warehouse, banging on a heavy metal door. As it opened, light flooded the sidewalk and Michael’s head poked out. “Come in. We’re just about ready.”

  Jakob stepped inside. Liquor bottles in wooden crates filled shelves that wrapped around the cavernous warehouse space.

  “Hop in,” Michael said, pointing to a truck that had been loaded with crates.

  “This is beautiful,” Jakob said, admiring the truck.

  “This is a Ford Model T panel truck. Brand new. My uncle just bought it,” he said as he climbed in.

  Soon they were headed north on Broadway. The warm evening provided a comfortable breeze through the open cab. Thirty minutes later, the truck pulled into an alleyway and stopped. Michael got out and bounded up the three steps to the landing. A sign read:

  DELIVERIES ONLY—SATAN’S CIRCUS

  He knocked a few times until the door opened. A brief exchange took place between Michael and a man wearing a news-boy hat.

  “Let’s go, Jakob. He tells me that the Monk is here.”

  “What about the crates?”

  “His men will take care of them,” Michael said.

  They walked down a long, smelly corridor. Muffled sounds of music and talk vibrated around them.

  “Why do they call this place Satan’s Circus?” Jakob shouted.

  Michael turned and smiled. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  As the door opened, Jakob felt he’d walked into a dream world. Dozens of women dressed in white frilly undergarments mingled with men in suits and sat on their laps, while the men blew puffs of cigar smoke around them. Long legs in stockings crisscrossed here and there. A man played popular tunes on a piano.

  The working ladies took note of Jakob as he entered.

  “Hey, handsome, come sit with me,” a voice called out.

  Michael led him to a deeply tufted banquette upholstered in burgundy velour. Between two lovely ladies sat a thin man with a severely receding hairline, wire-rim spectacles, and a bushy black mustache.

  “Who’s your friend, Michael?” asked
the Monk.

  “This is Jakob Adler. He’s helping me with deliveries tonight. Jakob, this is the Monk.”

  “Ladies, please give us a minute here,” the Monk said, indicating the women should vacate the booth. As they left, they gave Jakob flirtatious glances.

  “They like you, Jakob. Perhaps you might like to enjoy some of the fruits here tonight?”

  “They are very beautiful,” he stammered, “but I’m here just to help Michael.”

  The man with the newsboy hat appeared at the table and nodded at the Monk, perhaps confirming the delivery to be the correct amount.

  “Gentlemen, please sit.”

  Jakob and Michael took seats on either side of the Monk in the half-round banquette. The Monk placed a small leather case on the table. He unclasped the straps, opened it, took out an envelope, and handed it to Michael.

  Michael nodded, said, “Thank you,” and glanced around nervously before stuffing the cash into his pocket.

  Perhaps Michael was only boasting about knowing the Monk before this, Jakob thought. This looks like the first time he’s ever dealt with the mob boss.

  “Don’t worry,” the Monk said, patting his hand. “This is the one place in the city where you won’t get robbed.”

  “So, Jakob, what do you think of Satan’s Circus?” the Monk asked with a sweeping gesture of his scrawny arms.

  As he climbed the stairs to his apartment after Michael dropped him off, Jakob couldn’t imagine how someone as unassuming as the Monk could become so powerful. He had seemed charming and not at all the monster Gorpatsch had described. But the stories that Michael shared had described a man who had no qualms about using violence as a means to an end. The accounts of cutting off fingers, gouging out eyes, and breaking bones made Jakob tread carefully when he broached the subject of a sit-down with Gorpatsch.