by I. J. Singer
“You there,” the eldest said. “You’re the son of Old Ashkenazi, Father’s court Jew?”
“Yes,” Simha Meir said. “My father is business representative for the factory.”
“And you want to become our court Jew, is that it?”
“I want to lend you gentlemen money,” Simha Meir said.
“How much have you got?”
“All you gentlemen need.”
The brothers exchanged glances. The eldest Huntze flipped back his flaxen, ropy gentile hair and shook himself like a dog caught in the rain.
“We don’t know when we can pay you back.”
“I can wait.”
“Our father mustn’t know.”
“You can count on my discretion.”
“We can’t figure to pay you back till our father is gone. And that’s not liable to happen for a long, long time.”
“I have patience.”
“We need lots of money. Many thousands now and more later.”
“I am always ready to accommodate the gentlemen,” Simha Meir said boldly, even though he had no inkling where he could lay his hands on that kind of money. “All I ask is two weeks’ notice.”
“Agreed,” the half-naked German said, performing his calisthenics. “Get some cash to us at once. By two weeks from tomorrow. Good-bye.”
Simha Meir walked out in a daze, irked by his rude reception, yet buoyed and exhilarated. The first breach had been made in the wall. True, he could only crawl through it on all fours, but that’s how it always was at the start. Even the Sages said so. But wise was he who could see beyond—into the future. And that something would come of this Simha Meir never doubted. Never had he felt such power in his hands, such faith in himself as he did now, striding along the wide, dusty suburban road running alongside the red fence that surrounded Heinz Huntze’s plant. Never had the soaring chimneys blackening the skies loomed so close.…
Some workers passing by snapped at his coattails and growled like dogs. “Here, sheeny, sheeny, sheeny!” they taunted. “Oy vey!”
Simha Meir never even heard them. He was up high somewhere among the tall chimney tops.…
With the same haste and zeal with which he had inveigled his way into his father-in-law’s factory right after the wedding, he now left it. He didn’t even wait for more favorable circumstances but sold out at a lower price in order to lay his hands on the ready money he needed. He borrowed more at inflated interest, went into hock, bartered objects and goods for cash. He forced himself to cultivate the callow youths at the studyhouse whom he had so assiduously avoided, sons-in-law living on their fathers-in-law’s bounty—and he cajoled them into investing their dowries with him, making them partners in the sweet deal he was putting together and promising them a share of the profits. He also resumed relations with his brothers-in-law, his sisters’ husbands, whom he had neglected till now. Using all the guile at his command, he whetted their greed and convinced them and his sisters to entrust their dowries to him.
“I can’t tell you at this time what the deal is,” he said conspiratorially. “It has to remain a secret for now. But I promise you juicy returns. With God’s help, we’ll all be swimming in gravy. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt my own flesh and blood, after all.”
But when even this didn’t prove enough, he took up his briefcase and umbrella, as he always did when he had a hard nut to crack, and decided to pay a short visit to Jacob Bunem in Warsaw.
For two days Simha Meir put on his best face in Jacob Bunem’s elegant quarters in Reb Kalman Eisen’s mansion. He displayed so much wit, logic, and erudition that everyone from his sister-in-law to Reb Kalman’s sons, those snobs and faultfinders, fell under his spell. “A genius, no less!” they raved. “A head for business and Torah both.…”
Even Jacob Bunem’s father-in-law, who walked in fear of everyone and kept to himself, took cognizance of the brilliance of his son-in-law’s brother. “God knows I’m no expert,” he said, denigrating himself as usual, “but I’m simply mad about that Simha Meir!”
He knew how to make an impact when he chose to, Simha Meir did. Just as he could remain isolated from people when he didn’t need them, he also knew how to turn on the charm and be as cordial, sweet, and caring as necessary when he was after something. He was never at a loss for an apt quote, parable, or aphorism. More than anyone, he was able to manipulate Jacob Bunem, who promptly forgot any resentments and recriminations he may have borne his twin brother. Gay, lusty, relishing life, and anxious for others to do the same, he couldn’t remain angry or bear a grudge for long. He listened to his brother briefly and lent him the money he asked for.
Actually Simha Meir could have raised all the capital he needed by discounting the Huntzes’ IOUs at high interest. But this was precisely what he didn’t want. It wouldn’t have served his purpose to have their notes floating around town. A crux of his scheme was to keep people away from them and to remain their confidential aide and personal banker.
He didn’t sleep; instead of eating, he scribbled rows of figures on the tablecloth and raced through his prayers, unwinding the phylacteries from his arm before he had even properly wound them.
He presented himself on the dot with the first installment and earned the grudging praise of the Huntzes. “Very nice work,” they acknowledged, negligently signing note after promissory note.
Once they had taken care of their immediate problem, they turned to a more pressing task—the barony they were so eager to acquire. They realized now that they could arrange the matter by themselves without going to their father. They would use their own friends to approach the Piotrkow governor. They knew that the sums they would have to lay out would be enormous, but what would that matter once the old man dropped dead?
This was exactly what Simha Meir had been counting on, and he was there again with the money at the appointed time.
The Piotrkow governor left his province in the hands of deputies, and traveling at the Huntze brothers’ expense, he took the first train to Petersburg.
Twenty-Four
THE BARONY WEIGHED like an oppressive yoke on the shoulders of Heinz Huntze. It had cost a fortune, far more than anticipated. Also, in keeping with their new station, his children demanded huge sums, as befitted the sons and daughters of a baron. Their gambling losses alone were staggering.
Finally, the director of the mill, Fat Albrecht, beneath whose bulk the sturdiest chairs groaned, gathered his courage and confronted his employer with some unsettling news. “Excuse me, Herr Baron,” he began apologetically, “but I felt it my duty to inform you that our treasury has been severely depleted and Herr Goetzke insists on drawing out his corresponding share immediately.”
“That filthy swine!” Huntze raged. “That scum!”
Goetzke was now as resentful of Huntze as he had been before their partnership. The barony his partner had acquired kept him awake at night. Throughout their partnership he had been silently brooding, for even though they were contractually equal, everyone referred to the plant as the Huntze factory, and Goetzke’s name was never mentioned.
As if this weren’t enough, the title of Baron served to accentuate the inequality between them. True, he, Goetzke, didn’t acknowledge the title. To him, it was as if it didn’t exist. He never attended Huntze’s balls, nor did he once make use of the title in speaking to his partner directly or in referring to him to others. He recoiled when others insisted on calling Huntze Herr Baron.
No matter what he, Goetzke, did to equalize the relationship, it always turned out that he emerged second. His only victory had been to force his former employer into a partnership, but since then it had all been downhill. As far as the world was concerned, Huntze was the King of Lodz, and Goetzke was some nonentity.
Not that he had taken this lying down. He built a palace every bit as grand as Huntze’s and rode in an equally ornate carriage. But people still thought of him as an upstart, if they thought of him at all.
And now Huntze had take
n a giant step toward leaving him even further behind. He seethed with rage and could neither eat nor sleep from envy and frustration. He had eagerly sought an opportunity to puncture Huntze’s balloon, and now it had come.
The business was in trouble. Goetzke could have easily waited for things to return to normal before drawing his share of the money due him, but he wouldn’t agree to this despite all of Albrecht’s pleas in Huntze’s behalf. “Let him become a baron on his own money, not on mine!”
If Huntze had come to him personally, he might have relented. The very act of having him beg a favor would have been worth everything. But the old man wouldn’t stoop to such humiliation, and he, Huntze, and Albrecht were forced to bring the situation to a head.
Of course, Huntze could have obtained unlimited credit to tide him over—his signature was like money in the bank. But it was his principle never to sign anything. It was a standing Lodz joke that the reason for this was that he couldn’t write, but Huntze couldn’t have cared less what people said. He knew that kings didn’t sign IOUs, and he was the King of Lodz, indeed, of all Poland.
At home his life was a continuous hell. His sons and daughters were forever teaching him manners and social graces. They kept entertaining aristocrats, who then invited him, Huntze, to their estates for hunts and parties.
He hated this. He knew nothing of horses, hounds, shooting, gambling, and dancing. His greatest pleasure was to sit in his office and banter with merchants and foremen, to insult his chemists and engineers. Title or no, he didn’t want to change his routine. He wanted to rise at dawn, put on his loose jacket and baggy pants, and be at work on time with the first worker. But his daughters wouldn’t allow this. “You are now a baron, Father,” they reminded him. “You may no longer mix with rabble.”
They wouldn’t let him exchange a word with anyone, wouldn’t let him go anywhere on foot but made him ride everywhere in the carriage, even though he loved to walk.
Worst of all were the honors heaped upon him. He was forever being appointed honorary director of this or that institution and dunned for donations to various churches and hospitals.
He hated to dole out charity. He had made his fortune with his own two hands, and he felt that all others who hadn’t done so were stupid, lazy, and inept. He particularly despised the poor, who, he firmly believed, were lazy drunks who only wanted to sponge off others, and it drove him wild when he was approached for a donation. “I pay enough taxes to the government!” he roared. “Let the government take care of that scum.…”
Now that he was a baron, his children forced him to give generously to all kinds of leeches. They insisted that it was his duty—noblesse oblige.
All these expenditures placed a severe financial strain on the factory, and he and Albrecht spent several sleepless nights agitating about the problem. Finally, after lengthy deliberation, Albrecht came to the conclusion that the remedy would have to come from the factory itself. When a body fell sick, the best solution was to allow it to heal itself, and this was true not only of human beings but of institutions.
“Well put, Albrecht,” Huntze concurred. “For once in your fat life, you speak words of wisdom.”
Having received his employer’s approval, Albrecht considered the various approaches open to him.
Reducing the quality of the finished goods was out of the question. Baron Huntze had worked too long and too hard to have his reputation so casually ruined. His product was known and respected everywhere. The gold and silver medals earned by the factory were ample proof of this. No, the solution lay elsewhere.
True, Baron Huntze could have cut down on expenses at home. Tens of thousands of rubles could be saved annually without the slightest inconvenience. But Albrecht was reluctant to propose this to the baron. Actually, this was out of the old man’s hands—it was the work of his daughters, sons, and sons-in-law.
The only remaining source of savings lay in the help.
Here savings could be effected. True, wages didn’t constitute the major source of the operating expenses, but there were so many workers, thousands of them, and only one treasury to carry them all. If each worker drew a little less, the savings would be enormous. In the course of a year all these losses could be made up. Those workers who objected were free to quit. There was no lack of available help in Lodz. Each day hordes of peasant men and women poured into the city in search of work. They would be content to work for pennies, particularly the young girls, who were every bit as capable as any man. The automatic looms required only hands to work the levers, and female hands were no worse than male. Besides, the young country girls were subservient, didn’t drink, and were conscientious about the work.
The next day Albrecht directed his foremen to fire as many men as possible and hire girls in their place—the younger the better. Next, he instituted an overall 15 percent cut in wages.
“Good work, Albrechtschen,” Huntze said. “Since I’ve had a new carriage made with the coat of arms and all, I’m giving you my old one along with the team and driver.”
“Thank you, Herr Baron!” Albrecht said, clumsily bowing his huge bulk.
The very next day the new changes were instituted. More and more men were discharged and replaced by peasant girls in flowered head kerchiefs who were paid a third of the men’s wages.
Long lines of men, mostly Polish peasants, who anxiously fingered their blue caps waiting for their final wages, queued up before the paymaster’s window. “Where to now, Jesus?” they muttered, having already doffed their caps long before reaching the paymaster’s grille.
The German workers, who hadn’t been let go and who lived in dormitories built on the factory grounds, cursed into the goods they were weaving, twisting their oaths along with the yarn and gazing around to see if the foremen had overheard.
At Albrecht’s suggestion, the foremen’s pay wasn’t cut. This assured their loyalty, and they supervised the workers with redoubled suspicion. The humble Polish girls were too frightened to resist when the foremen led them to a bale of goods in the corner, and the foremen sniffed around like bloodhounds to catch the remaining men in a dismissible offense.
Nor did the change in personnel bother Melchior, the attendant, and his friend, Jostel, the watchman. The former frisked the workers as they left the factory to make sure they hadn’t filched anything, and the latter was responsible for the plant’s security. Together, they had a moneylending sideline going. There were men who liked a beer or two after work; others lost their week’s pay gambling; still others had to visit the leech about some venereal affliction without telling their wives.
None of this could be deducted from the salaries the men turned over intact to their wives, and they turned to Melchior, who charged only ten kopecks’ interest per week. He, Melchior, also collected tips from businessmen who came to visit Huntze and earned additional income procuring for Director Albrecht, who kept bachelor quarters close to the factory. Only the very youngest and freshest girls would do for Albrecht, and Melchior was very popular with the female sex because of his position, his splendid forest green uniform, and his gigantic proportions. As if this weren’t enough, he played a clarinet and had a steady supply of wine at home that he collected from the Huntze palace following the parties and balls, and the female workers flocked to him, providing him a splendid crop of girls to choose from for himself and for the director. The girls inevitably came back from Albrecht’s quarters with bruises about their necks and arms and a cheap dress or a ruble in payment. The director paid Melchior handsomely for his good taste and the endless variety of girls he provided him, and everyone, except possibly the girls, was content.
The workers to whom he, Melchior, lent money would have been astonished to learn that the rate of interest he charged them came to nearly 500 percent, but they didn’t bother their heads about such things.
Melchior’s friend Jostel had his own little rackets. He took money from the commission salesmen whom he admitted into the factory; from buyers of waste
who pulled up with huge wagons at the factory gates; from peasants who came to cart away the manure from the stables; from drivers who delivered the raw materials; even from peasants who made the mill their first stop upon their arrival in Lodz.
He also lent money at interest, but to the wives of workers when there was no bread in the house, when a husband had drunk away the week’s pay, or when the midwife had to be paid for an abortion resulting from an illicit affair.
Just like Melchior, he enjoyed females visiting the quarters he maintained in a corner of the factory. But he was already too old for women, and he could only enjoy little girls who were willing to kiss an old grandpa for a piece of candy and even play games with him. Not all the mothers were willing to send their daughters to Jostel in lieu of repaying their loans, but there were always enough who did so without the knowledge of their husbands. They recalled their own childhoods when they, too, had allowed themselves to be fondled by such an old “uncle,” be it the village teacher, a storekeeper, or whoever. They knew that they hadn’t been seriously harmed by this since they had married, borne children, and become good wives.
And they sent their little daughters to Uncle Jostel, cautioning them to do as they were told and to tell no one afterward.
Now that notices were posted in the factory announcing the 15 percent cut in wages, business for the two entrepreneurs was excellent. In the dormitories where the workers lived, times were harsh. The wives no longer added fat to the soup, and they kept serving the same millet with potatoes, which left their husbands unsated and irritable so that out of frustration, they beat their families and got drunk in the taverns. The wives sought to earn some side money, and they sold themselves to the young bachelor weavers who boarded in their kitchens. Children were torn from their dolls and put to work in the factories to bring home a few guldens.