“It’s spring,” he murmured.
“It’s winter.”
“I will wear my hat and coat.”
“Your feet will get wet. You have no galoshes.”
“Only five minutes.”
“No,” she said flatly.
Later, he thought.
All afternoon the snow came softly down and by evening it had reached a depth of six inches. When the snowing stopped, a wind rose and blew clouds of it through the streets. He watched at the front window.
Ida hung over him all day. He didn’t get out till late. After closing he had sat relentlessly over a piece of store paper, writing a long list, until she grew impatient.
“Why do you stay so late?”
“I figure the stock for the auctioneer.”
“This is Karp’s business.”
“I must help, he don’t know the prices.”
Talk of the store’s sale relieved her. “Come up soon,” she yawned.
He waited until he felt she was asleep, then went down to the cellar for the shovel. He put on his hat and a pair of old gloves and stepped out into the street. To his surprise the wind wrapped him in an icy jacket, his apron flapping noisily. He had expected, the last of March, a milder night. The surprise lingered in his mind but the shoveling warmed him. He kept his back to Karp’s burned hole, though with the black turned white it wasn’t too hard to look at.
Scooping up a shovelful of snow he heaved it into the street. It turned to dust in mid-air and whirled whitely away.
He recalled the hard winters when he had first come to America. After about fifteen years they turned mild but now they were hard again. It had been a hard life, but now with God’s help he would have an easier time.
He flung another load of snow into the street. “A better life,” he muttered.
Nick and Tessie came home from somewhere.
“At least put something warm on, Mr. Bober,” advised Tessie.
“I’m almost finished,” Morris grunted.
“It’s your health,” said Nick.
The first floor window shot up. Ida stood there in her flannel nightgown, her hair down.
“Are you crazy?” she shouted to the grocer.
“Finished,” he answered.
“Without a coat—are you crazy?”
“Took me ten minutes.”
Nick and Tessie went into the house.
“Come up now,” Ida shouted.
“Finished,” Morris cried. He heaved a last angry shovelful into the gutter. A little of the sidewalk remained to be cleaned but now that she was nagging he felt too tired to do it.
Morris dragged the wet shovel into the store. The warmth struck him across the head. He felt himself reeling and had a momentary fright but after a glass of hot tea with lemon felt rested.
As he was drinking the tea it began to snow again. He watched a thousand flakes push at the window, as if they wanted to snow through the glass and in the kitchen. He saw the snow as a moving curtain, and then he saw it in lit single flakes, not touching each other.
Ida banged hard on the floor, so he finally closed and went upstairs.
She was sitting in her bathrobe with Helen in the living room, her eyes dark with anger. “Are you a baby you had to go out in the snow? What’s the matter with such a man?”
“I had my hat on. What am I, tissue paper?”
“You had pneumonia,” she shouted.
“Mama, lower your voice,” Helen said, “they’ll hear upstairs.”
“Who asked him to shovel snow, for God’s sakes?”
“For twenty-two years stinks in my nose this store. I wanted to smell in my lungs some fresh air.”
“Not in the ice cold.”
“Tomorrow is April.”
“Anyway,” Helen said, “don’t tempt fate, Papa.”
“What kind of winter can be in April?”
“Come to sleep.” Ida marched off to bed.
He sat with Helen on the couch. Since hearing of Karp’s visit that morning she had lost her moodiness, looked again like a happy girl. He thought with sadness how pretty she was. He wanted to give her something—only good.
“How do you feel that I am selling the house and store?” he asked her.
“You know how I feel.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Refreshed.”
“We will move to a better neighborhood like you like. I will find a better parnusseh. You will keep your wages.”
She smiled at him.
“I remember when you were a little baby,” Morris said.
She kissed his hand.
“I want the most you should be happy.”
“I will be.” Her eyes grew wet. “If you only knew all the good things I’d like to give you, Papa.”
“You gave me.”
“I’ll give you better.”
“Look how it snows,” said Morris.
They watched the snow through the moving windows, then Morris said good night.
“Sleep well,” Helen said.
But he lay in bed restless, almost dejected. There was so much to do, so many changes to make and get used to. Tomorrow was the day Karp would bring the deposit. Tuesday the auctioneer would come and they would go over the goods and fixtures. Wednesday they could hold the auction. Thursday, for the first time in almost a generation, he would be without a place of business. Such a long time. After so many years in one place he hated the thought of having to get used to another. He disliked leaving the neighborhood though he hadn’t liked it. It made him uncomfortable to be in a strange place. He thought uneasily of having to locate, appraise, and buy a new store. He would prefer to live above the store, but Helen wanted them to take a small apartment, so let it be a small apartment. Once he had the store he would let them look for a place to live. But the store he would have to find himself. What he feared most was that he would make another mistake and again settle in a prison. The possibility of this worried him intensely. Why would the owner want to sell? Would he be an honest man or, underneath, a thief? And once he had bought the place, would business keep up or go down? Would times stay good? Would he make a living? His thoughts exhausted him. He could feel his poor heart running a race against the merciless future.
He fell heavily asleep but awoke in a couple of hours, drenched in hot sweat. Yet his feet were freezing and he knew that if he kept his thoughts on them he would break into shivering. Then his right shoulder began to hurt, and when he forced himself to take a deep breath, his left side pained him. He knew he was sick and was miserably disappointed. He lay in the dark, trying not to think how stupid it had been to shovel the snow. He must have caught a chill. He thought he would not. He thought he was entitled, after twenty-two years, to a few minutes of freedom. Now his plans would have to wait, although Ida could finish the business with Karp and make arrangements with the auctioneer. Gradually he accepted the thought that he had a cold —maybe flu. He considered waking her to call a doctor but who could they call without a telephone? And if Helen got dressed and used Sam Pearl’s phone, what an embarrassment that would be, waking up a whole family when she rang their bell; also arousing a doctor out of his precious sleep, who would say after examining him, “Mister, what’s all the excitement? You got the flu, so stay in bed.” For such advice he didn’t need to call a doctor in his nightshirt. He could wait a few hours till morning. Morris dozed but felt fever shake him in his sleep. He awoke with his hair stiff. Maybe he had pneumonia? After a while he grew calmer. He was sick but sickness was nothing new to him Probably if he hadn’t shoveled snow he would have got sick anyway. In the last few days he hadn’t felt so well—headachy, weak in the knees. Yet though he tried to resign himself to what had happened, he felt enormously bitter that he had become ill. So he had shoveled snow in the street, but did it have to snow in April? And if it did, did he have to get sick the minute he stepped out into the open air? It frustrated him hopelessly that every move he made seemed to turn into an inevitable
thing.
He dreamed of Ephraim. He had recognized him when the dream began by his brown eyes, clearly his father’s. Ephraim wore a beanie cut from the crown of an old hat of Morris’s, covered with buttons and shiny pins, but the rest of him was in rags. Though he did not for some reason expect otherwise, this and that the boy looked hungry shocked the grocer.
“I gave you to eat three times a day, Ephraim,” he explained, “so why did you leave so soon your father?”
Ephraim was too shy to answer, but Morris, in a rush of love for him—a child was so small at that age—promised him a good start in life.
“Don’t worry, I’ll give you a fine college education.”
Ephraim—a gentleman-averted his face as he snickered.
“I give you my word …”
The boy disappeared in the wake of laughter.
“Stay alive,” his father cried after him.
When the grocer felt himself awaking, he tried to get back into the dream but it easily evaded him. His eyes were wet. He thought of his life with sadness. For his family he had not provided, the poor man’s disgrace. Ida was asleep at his side. He wanted to awaken her and apologize. He thought of Helen. It would be terrible if she became an old maid. He moaned a little, thinking of Frank. His mood was of regret. I gave away my life for nothing. It was the thunderous truth.
Was the snow still falling?
Morris died in the hospital, three days later, and was buried the day after in an enormous cemetery—it went on for miles—in Queens. He had been a member of a burial society since coming to America and the services took place in the Society’s funeral parlor on the Lower East Side, where the grocer had lived as a young man. At noon in the chapel’s antechamber, Ida, gray-faced and in mourning, every minute on the edge of fainting, sat in a high-backed tapestried chair, rocking her head. At her side, wasted, red-eyed from weeping, sat Helen. Landsleit, old friends, drawn by funeral notices in the Jewish morning papers, lamented aloud as they bent to kiss her, dropping pulpy tears on her hands. They sat on folding chairs facing the bereaved and talked in whispers. Frank Alpine stood for a moment, his hat uncomfortably on, in a corner of the room. When the place grew crowded he left and seated himself among the handful of mourners already assembled in the long narrow chapel, dimly lit by thick, yellow wall lamps. The rows of benches were dark and heavy. In the front of the chapel, on a metal stand, lay the grocer’s plain wooden coffin.
At one P.M., the gray-haired undertaker, breathing heavily, escorted the widow and her daughter to the front row on the left, not far from the coffin. A wailing began among the mourners. The chapel was a little more than half-full of old friends of the grocer, a few distant relatives, burial society acquaintances, and one or two customers. Breitbart, the bulb peddler, sat, stricken, against the right wall. Charlie Sobeloff, grown heavy-faced and stout, appeared, with Florida tan and sad crossed eye, together with his stylish wife, who sat staring at Ida. The entire Pearl family was present, Betty with her new husband, and Nat, sober, concerned for Helen, wearing a black skull cap. A few rows behind them was Louis Karp, alone and ill at ease among strangers. Also Witzig, the baker, who had served Morris bread and rolls for twenty years. And Mr. Giannola, the barber, and Nick and Tessie Fuso, behind whom Frank Alpine sat. When the bearded rabbi entered the chapel through a side door, Frank took off his hat but quickly put it on again.
The secretary of the Society appeared, a soft-voiced man with little hair, his glasses lit with reflections of the wall lamps, and read from a handwritten paper praise for Morris Bober and lamentation for his loss. When he announced the body could be seen, the undertaker and his assistant, a man in a chauffeur’s cap, lifted the coffin lid and a few people came forward. Helen wept profusely at her father’s waxen, berouged image, the head wrapped in a prayer shawl, the thin mouth slightly twisted.
Ida flung up both arms, crying in Yiddish at the corpse, “Morris, why didn’t you listen to me? You went away and left me with a child, alone in the world. Why did you do it?” She broke into racking sobs and was gently escorted by Helen and the breathless undertaker to her seat, where she pressed her wet face against her daughter’s shoulder. Frank went up last. He could see, where the prayer shawl fell back a little, the scar on the grocer’s head, but outside of that it wasn’t Morris. He felt a loss but it was an old one.
The rabbi then prayed, a stocky man with a pointed black beard. He stood on the podium near the coffin, wearing an old Homburg, a faded black frock coat over brown trousers, and bulbous shoes. After his prayer in Hebrew, when the mourners were seated, in a voice laden with sorrow he spoke of the dead man.
“My dear friends, I never had the pleasure to meet this good grocery man that he now lays in his coffin. He lived in a neighborhood where I didn’t come in. Still and all I talked this morning to people that knew him and I am now sorry I didn’t know him also. I would enjoy to speak to such a man. I talked to the bereaved widow, who lost her dear husband. I talked to his poor beloved daughter Helen, who is now without a father to guide her. To them I talked, also to landsleit and old friends, and each and all told me the same, that Morris Bober, who passed away so untimely—he caught double pneumonia from shoveling snow in front of his place of business so people could pass by on the sidewalk—was a man who couldn’t be more honest. Such a person I am sorry I didn’t meet sometime in my life. If I met him somewhere, maybe when he went to visit in a Jewish neighborhood—maybe at Rosh Hashana or Pesach—I would say to him, ‘God bless you, Morris Bober.’ Helen, his dear daughter, remembers from when she was a small girl that her father ran two blocks in the snow to give back to a poor Italian lady a nickel that she forgot on the counter. Who runs in wintertime without hat or coat, without rubbers to protect his feet, two blocks in the snow to give back five cents that a customer forgot? Couldn’t he wait till she comes in tomorrow? Not Morris Bober, let him rest in peace. He didn’t want the poor woman to worry, so he ran after her in the snow. This is why the grocer had so many friends who admi-red him.”
The rabbi paused and gazed over the heads of the mourners.
“He was also a very hard worker, a man that never stopped working. How many mornings he got up in the dark and dressed himself in the cold, I can’t count. After, he went downstairs to stay all day in the grocery. He worked long long hours. Six o’clock every morning he opened and he closed after ten every night, sometimes later. Fifteen, sixteen hours a day he was in the store, seven days a week, to make a living for his family. His dear wife Ida told me she will never forget his steps going down the stairs each morning, and also in the night when he came up so tired for his few hours’ sleep before he will open again the next day the store. This went on for twenty-two years in this store alone, day after day, except the few days when he was too sick. And for this reason that he worked so hard and bitter, in his house, on his table, was always something to eat. So besides honest he was a good provider.”
The rabbi gazed down at his prayer book, then looked up.
“When a Jew dies, who asks if he is a Jew? He is a Jew, we don’t ask. There are many ways to be a Jew. So if somebody comes to me and says, ‘Rabbi, shall we call such a man Jewish who lived and worked among the gentiles and sold them pig meat, trayfe, that we don’t eat it, and not once in twenty years comes inside a synagogue, is such a man a Jew, rabbi?’ To him I will say, ‘Yes, Morris Bober was to me a true Jew because he lived in the Jewish experience, which he remembered, and with the Jewish heart.’ Maybe not to our formal tradition—for this I don’t excuse him—but he was true to the spirit of our life—to want for others that which he wants also for himself. He followed the Law which God gave to Moses on Sinai and told him to bring to the people. He suffered, he endu-red, but with hope. Who told me this? I know. He asked for himself little—nothing, but he wanted for his beloved child a better existence than he had. For such reasons he was a Jew. What more does our sweet God ask his poor people? So let Him now take care of the widow, to comfort and protect her, and g
ive to the fatherless child what her father wanted her to have. ‘Yesterday v’yiskadash shmey, rabo. B‘olmo divro …’”
The mourners rose and prayed with the rabbi.
Helen, in her grief, grew restless. He’s overdone it, she thought. I said Papa was honest but what was the good of such honesty if he couldn’t exist in this world? Yes, he ran after this poor woman to give her back a nickel but he also trusted cheaters who took away what belonged to him. Poor Papa; being naturally honest, he didn’t believe that others come by their dishonesty naturally. And he couldn’t hold onto those things he had worked so hard to get. He gave away, in a sense, more than he owned. He was no saint; he was in a way weak, his only true strength in his sweet nature and his understanding. He knew, at least, what was good. And I didn’t say he had many friends who admired him. That’s the rabbi’s invention. People liked him, but who can admire a man passing his life in such a store? He buried himself in it; he didn’t have the imagination to know what he was missing. He made himself a victim. He could, with a little more courage, have been more than he was.
Helen prayed for peace on the soul of her dead father.
Ida, holding a wet handkerchief to her eyes, thought, So what if we had to eat? When you eat you don’t want to worry whose money you are eating—yours or the wholesalers’. If he had money he had bills; and when he had more money he had more bills. A person doesn’t always want to worry if she will be in the street tomorrow. She wants sometimes a minute’s peace. But maybe it’s my fault, because I didn’t let him be a druggist.
She wept because her judgment of the grocer was harsh although she loved him. Helen, she thought, must marry a professional.
When the prayer was done the rabbi left the chapel through the side door, and the coffin was lifted by some of the Society members and the undertaker’s assistant, carried on their shoulders outside, and placed in the hearse. The people in the chapel filed out and went home, except Frank Alpine, who sat alone in the funeral parlor.
The Assistant Page 23