Several turns in, Jesler pulled over and a figure emerged from behind a telephone pole. The passenger door opened and the soft-capped older black man from this afternoon ducked in. Neither said a word as Jesler took the car out. Twenty minutes on he cut the beams; he had driven them well beyond the last of the houses. In the distance a series of tall lights began to appear, over a hundred feet high, which served as a beacon to guide them through the pitch-black of the untamed fields. It was track road, with sudden dips and jolts, but Jesler felt comfortable enough easing the car along: not exactly the place to find a small wooden booth with a single bulb inside, but there it was, standing in front of a wire fence that stretched into the darkness.
Jesler brought the car to a stop and reached across to the glove compartment as a man stepped out from the booth. The man held a flashlight and raised it at the car.
Jesler said, “How’s it going tonight?” He took out an envelope before straightening himself up.
The man let the beam drop and leaned into the window. He was broad in his uniform, a wide face the color of hay, with a gun holstered at his belt, and a Georgia Ports Authority badge affixed to the center of his hat.
“You got a call tonight?” the man asked.
Jesler handed him the envelope. “That’s for you and Dickie up the other side.”
The man stuffed the envelope into his jacket pocket and peered deeper into the car. “Riding up front tonight, are you, Calvin?” The man did his best with a loose smile.
“Raymond’ll be coming up,” said Jesler. “You let him through.”
The smile dropped and the man pulled himself back. “All right then.”
Beyond the padlocked gate, the track road continued like a strip of taut yarn along the side of a long, narrow building. Jesler drove slowly. Somewhere ahead the sound of diesel and steam engines began to roar.
He took the turn at the end of the track, and the windshield was suddenly filled with a bright white light. Beyond it, an expanse of paved ground led across to the docks where eighty-foot cranes stood at intervals, some idle, others carrying roped bundles from the two large merchant ships that had been tied off. Warehouses and workshops lined the edges, all quiet save for this particular stretch, where fifteen men maneuvered push wagons and open-back trucks in and among the growing pyramid of crates.
Jesler drove slowly past the lights and into the shadows. The sound of the diesels dulled and, a hundred yards in, he cut his own engine and let the car coast to a stop. Leaning across, he pulled a second envelope from the glove compartment before turning to open the door.
“You go get the wagon,” he said.
Calvin headed off and Jesler locked the car.
The buildings were identical here, tall flat warehouse fronts with a single door at the side. Jesler came to one where the front was open, still no light, but with the smell of gasoline now thicker and the tang of melted rubber in the nose. He walked in and lit a cigarette. It was the only light in the place and he stood there, watching as the ember moved back and forth before he let it drop to the ground. Calvin appeared at the front, wheeling a cart behind him. He pulled it farther into the darkness and Jesler lit a second cigarette.
It was several minutes before the bobbing of lights appeared beyond the door, followed by the sound of an engine. The white beams grew sharper then turned and pancaked across the floor. The truck stopped and a man stepped down from the cab. He spoke with a voice that filled the space.
“Evening,” he said. He had a barrel chest that sat atop a thick waist, the creases in his neck glistening with sweat. Jesler had met him once before up the coast.
“Evening,” said Jesler. “Jimmy’s not coming tonight?”
The man shut the door to the cab. “Thought I’d come down myself, see how things are going.”
“Not much to it.”
“Never is, is there?” The man glanced around. “Jimmy told me you always have two boys with you?”
“The other’s on his way.”
“Well I guess this one can get started on the loose boxes while we wait, can’t he?” The man poked a thumb toward the truck and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “It’s the ones on the left, boy. Make sure your hands are dry.” He ran the handkerchief across his neck.
Calvin brought the cart up to the back of the truck, wiped his hands on his shirt, and climbed up. The man pocketed the handkerchief and brought out some folded papers. He said, “Gonna need you to sign these tonight.”
The man found a pen in his other pocket and Jesler said, “Excuse me?”
“Need you to sign these papers.”
“Sign?” Jesler heard the rawness in his own voice; he regretted it.
“Nothing to worry about. You take a look at them if you want.”
Jesler dropped his cigarette, crushed it out, and took the papers. He read. “This is in Italian,” he said.
“It sure is.”
“Why would I sign something in Italian?”
The man laughed to himself. “Oh, I don’t know. Why would you have yourself standing in the middle of an empty warehouse at near two in the morning? I said not to worry. No one sees those papers except the Italians on the boat. They gotta have something to show their folks back home. Dropped off, signed, paid in full, that sort of thing.”
“I see …” Jesler continued to glance through the pages. “I’m not sure I should sign anything.”
“You’re not?” The threat had such a carefree quality to it. “I guess Jimmy didn’t explain well enough what we got going on here. This makes, what … your third pickup?”
“Third. Yes.”
“Then you know how things work, at least on this end.”
“I thought I did.”
“Go on and flip to the back pages.” The man waited. “You see that signed import form there, that tax registration? Either of them got your signature on it?” Jesler shook his head. “No,” said the man, “they don’t. But they’re signed all the same. Know why we need them? ’Cause the Italians need to see them. And your name’s gotta be there right along with everyone else’s. That way the Italians can put it in some file back in Rome and keep on sending us the merchandise. You getting it now? No reason for them to wonder if some Abe Jesler is actually paying the import fees or the registration tax. No reason for them to talk to anybody at the port.” The man watched Jesler but he wasn’t waiting for an answer. “All the Italians need to know is that Abe Jesler is a part of it, that this Jesler is gonna keep on being a part of it. We all need to know that. And everybody gets to stay happy.”
Calvin appeared at the back of the truck and hopped down with four small boxes held against his chest. He placed them in the cart. The man held out the pen. Jesler took it and signed.
“Oh,” said the man, “and there’s some extras this time out. The fella in the tax office needs a little more cash up front. Couldn’t be helped. Thought it’d be best if I come down and tell you myself.”
“Extras,” said Jesler.
“Nothing you can’t handle.”
“How much?”
“Hundred and fifty.”
“Hundred and fifty?” The rawness returned to his voice; Jesler wondered if it had ever left. “That’s almost two dollars a pair.”
“I guess it is. That’s not a problem, is it?”
Jesler knew there was no point in pushing back, but damned if he was going to let himself give in so easily again.
“It depends,” he said.
“Depends?” This time there was nothing to veil the threat. “Depends on what? You think it’d depend for Sussman or Wagger? Maybe it don’t have to be Jews getting the advantage on the merchandise here.”
“Except the Jews are the only ones willing to pay.”
It was a dangerous few seconds before the man laughed again. “Well, ain’t that just the way.” He folded the papers and placed them in his pocket. “My associate Jimmy tells me you folks made Savannah. Rag sellers, meat grinders, now ladies’ shops an
d city markets. That’s quite a thing. So I guess you’re just keeping up traditions, aren’t you?”
Jesler pulled the envelope from his pocket and handed it to the man.
“You can get me that extra hundred and fifty by Wednesday.”
The man pocketed the envelope as a second truck pulled into the warehouse. Its lights spilled along the far wall before coming to a stop. A young black man, the one from the store this afternoon, stepped down from the cab. He, too, had a chest that strained against his shirt, but here it was all muscle.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Jesler. There was a confusion at the booth.”
“Don’t worry about it, Raymond.” Jesler imagined the “confusion”: the man at the gate, keeping a thick hand on Raymond’s chest, holding the “boy” in his place, and feeling the power beneath the black, black skin, and all Jesler felt now was his own helplessness and a pen in his hand. “Just get yourself up in the back and help Calvin with the big crates.”
“Yes, suh.”
Raymond hopped up, and the man said, “There’s always one nigger that’s late, ain’t there? I’ll take a cigarette.”
Jesler blinked for a moment and tapped one out, and Raymond’s head peered out from around the back. “Mr. Jesler. Calvin says there’s a couple a boxes been crushed down. Some loose heels and such inside.”
It took Jesler a moment to refocus. “How many?”
“Four or five.”
The man smiled willfully. “It wasn’t like that when I drove up. You tell your boy to be more careful.”
Jesler stood in the silence and waited for this last wave of resentment to pass. “Tell Calvin to be more careful.”
“Yes, suh, Mr. Jesler.” Raymond disappeared into the truck.
Jesler lit the man’s cigarette and said, “Maybe there won’t be any broken boxes next time out.”
The man spat a stray piece of tobacco to the ground and inhaled deeply. “Maybe.”
2
THE FIRST government letter from the State Department arrived on Friday. The Atlanta office had scheduled an appointment with Goldah in three weeks’ time. It was a single sentence followed by an equally short apology for any inconvenience this might cause. No mention of why, only that the material in question was too sensitive for correspondence and therefore required his presence. They had included a voucher to pay for Goldah’s train ticket.
Jesler stared at the page as he gnawed at the last of his lamb chops. Pearl had kept the letter unopened in her purse all day, bringing it out only now, just before dessert.
“You’d think they’d have more sense,” Jesler said. “A government letter asking you to report for no reason. No concern for how familiar that might sound to you.”
The thought hadn’t even occurred to Goldah. “I didn’t take it that way.”
“Then you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.” Jesler set the bone on his plate and ripped off a piece of the challah. “I’m sorry for this, Ike. I’ll close the store for a couple of days. Maybe I can get some business done up in Atlanta.”
“Oh, I can go with him, Abe. No reason for you to close up. And there’s a better selection of suits in Atlanta anyway.”
“Pearl, please. I’ll make a few phone calls. See if we can’t find out what’s going on with this.” Jesler picked up the letter and read it through again.
With a sudden cheeriness Pearl said, “I was thinking you could wear the new blue tie to shul tomorrow, Ike. That would look very smart.”
It was Goldah’s first Friday with the Jeslers. He thought all the ties she had bought him were blue.
He said, “I wanted to say again how much I appreciate all you’ve done.”
“Now stop saying that.” Pearl took great pleasure in this particular chastisement. “There’s no need. It’s a joy. And it’s a joy for Abe as well, isn’t it, Abe?”
Jesler took a last look at the letter and set it down. “A joy,” he said absently. He saw Pearl staring across at him. “A real joy.”
“And the service, Abe? Don’t you want to tell him about the service?”
Jesler now recalled how she had instructed him on this. Somehow he had let it slip his mind.
“Oh, it’s a good service,” he said. “Traditional. If a Jew came to town — even a Jew from New York or Philadelphia — and wanted to know where he could find a regular Shabbas service, they’d send him to us. No question about it. There’s no separating the men and the women. We’re Conservative now but just about as close to Orthodox as you can get. You grew up Orthodox, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t. No. Not at all.”
“Really? I thought most Czechs were religious. Laying tefillin. That sort of thing.” Jesler eyed another bone and picked it up.
“That was more Poland and Lithuania.”
Jesler nodded.
Pearl said, “Were there Reform?”
“You mean Methodists?” said Jesler. He shook his head with a smile. “I’m just joking with you, Ike. It’s a little joke.” He made a sucking sound through his teeth.
“And your family?” said Pearl.
Goldah found it odd that this was the first time they had thought to ask about the family. He said, “I think perhaps I won’t go tomorrow.”
Jesler and Pearl shared a glance. She did her best with a smile.
“No?” she said.
“If that’s all right?”
Another glance.
“No, no,” she said, nodding, “of course. We completely understand.” And then, as if she truly did, “It’s not the rabbi, is it? It wasn’t your meeting the rabbi?” She looked again to Jesler for help but he was back working the chop. “He’s a very nice man but he’s, you know … a rabbi. And rabbis are … well, they’re rabbis. You know what I mean. Well-meaning. A little full of himself. But very learned. He’s a very learned man. Wouldn’t you say so, Abe?”
Jesler nodded as he ate. “Very learned.”
Goldah said, “The rabbi seemed very kind.”
“He is,” said Pearl. “He really is.”
Jesler examined the chop. “If he’s not inclined to go, Pearl, then he doesn’t need to go. You’re not inclined to go, are you, Ike?”
“I’m afraid I’m not, no.”
“Well, there it is.” Jesler set the food on his plate and took hold of his napkin. He chose not to feel Pearl’s glare from across the table. “Mary Royal’ll be here in the morning for breakfast and lunch. We like to get there just before the Torah reading so maybe we’ll leave here around nine, nine fifteen, back by twelve thirty. Might go a bit longer. The sermons have a tendency to grow the closer we get to Rosh Hashanah. I think he likes working up the muscle, make sure we’re primed for the big ones. Maybe a quarter to one?”
Goldah felt the genuineness in this. “If it would be better —”
“Nothing about this is better or worse,” Jesler said easily. “I like to go. Pearl likes to go. Simple as that. We’ve never thought to ask any questions about it. I imagine you have. You’re in our home, Ike. You find what you need and we’re here to give it.”
Goldah watched as Jesler looked at his wife. “Isn’t that right, Pearl?” Goldah saw an unexpected warmth in Jesler’s eyes.
As if breathing it in, Pearl said, “Yes, that’s right.” She looked at Goldah. “You find whatever it is you need, wherever it is you need to find it.”
Goldah heard himself say, “You’re very lucky, the two of you.”
“Yes,” said Jesler. “We are.” He folded the letter and placed it inside his jacket pocket.
Goldah waited until after ten the next morning before heading downstairs. He had brought an orange up the night before to tide him over. It was Pearl’s favorite phrase.
Mary Royal was standing at the sink washing up when Goldah stepped into the kitchen.
“Hello there,” Goldah said.
She was taking great care with the glasses and plates, peering through each at the window as if to measure the sunlight in them.
> He said, “I hope I didn’t startle you.”
“I’d’ve dropped the glass if you had, Mr. Ike. See, I’m still holding it. You want something to eat?” She set the glass down and wiped her hands on her apron. “I got some nice melon, bread for toasting I made this morning, maybe some eggs and grits? Or you just want to start with coffee like usual?”
“Coffee would be good. Thank you.”
“You go on in and I’ll bring it in to you. There’s still the papers on the table.” She stepped over to a cupboard.
“I can eat in here, if it’s easier for you.”
“Both is easy.”
The light through the window came in like a spray of ice and played in gray spots on the wall. Just below them was a small table near the door to the back porch. For some reason Goldah was wanting the brightness. He stepped over and pulled back a chair.
“I think here this morning.”
“That’s fine.” Mary Royal brought a cup down and poured from the percolator. “Miss Pearl said you needed to have some eggs. And she was wondering if you got yourself ready for those grits yet.”
“Not ready.”
She was remarkably quick at splitting and whipping eggs. Goldah hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he smelled them in the pan. She slid them onto a plate and cut up a few pieces of melon and laid them alongside.
“Mr. Abe likes to fry up his pastrami. He just got it new yesterday. You ever try fried pastrami?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“It’s pretty good. I think Mr. Abe done it the first time ’cause a how much he love the smell a bacon. He told me how he used to smell it down in Yamacraw when they was young and living there, coming up along the street and just knew it was the best thing he ever smelled in his whole life.” She set the plate in front of him and brought over a fork and knife. “He can’t eat it, a course, on account it not being koshuh. There’s lots a stuff he and Miss Pearl don’t eat on account a the koshuh. But he says fried pastrami just about as close as he’s going to get to that smell a bacon without it actually being the bacon. I can fry you up some, if you like?”
“Thank you, no.” Goldah took a sip of the coffee and started in on the eggs.
Among the Living Page 4