The Brothers Ashkenazi

by I. J. Singer

  But on the forthcoming Sabbath much of this joy was vitiated.

  Following the day’s labors on Thursday, the longest workday of the week, Tevye and Nissan sat down and composed a biting proclamation against Maximilian Flederbaum, Governor von Müller, and the tsar himself. It contained the usual invective against the rich and powerful, couched in the customary bombastic language.

  Keila shrieked at the men for wasting kerosene and threatened to douse them with a bucket of water, but they kept on writing, erasing, and correcting until at dawn they had the text ready. The whole following day Nissan made copies, assisted by several of his disciples. That evening, while Jews were visiting bathhouses, they sneaked into the synagogues and studyhouses and posted the proclamations. This way, even if the beadles caught them in the act, they would be prohibited by the laws of the Sabbath from tearing them down.

  When the Jews at the houses of prayer read the proclamations, a great fear fell over them. The proclamations dared malign not only Flederbaum and the governor but the tsar himself. The Jews wanted to tear the terrible papers down, but they were prevented by the restrictions of the Sabbath. The problem was brought to the rabbi, and he promptly judged that the danger was serious enough to warrant breaking the law.

  In the Flederbaum palace, all was gaiety and pomp. Yakub Ashkenazi danced with all the Flederbaum daughters, who insisted that he was much too dashing and attractive to be Jewish.

  Governor von Müller enjoyed himself hugely, especially the thousands of rubles Flederbaum permitted him to win from him at cards. Warmed by the winnings, the wine, and the company of lovely ladies, the governor let it slip to his host that a new railroad line was soon to be built through the region. Flederbaum excused himself and sought out his new sales representative, whom he drew off to one side.

  “I want you to buy up all the land in and around the city through which the line will be running,” he instructed him. “This has to be done in the strictest confidence since no one but you and I know about it.”

  “I’ll get on it the first thing in the morning,” Yakub said.

  “I know that I can count on you,” Maximilian Flederbaum said in homey Yiddish, and put his arm around his young associate’s waist. “And we won’t have to go to the rabbi to arbitrate the amount of your commission.… And now you can go back to your ladies.”

  The orchestra struck up a polonaise.

  Twenty-Nine

  MAX ASHKENAZI TOOK THE SETBACK with the governor much harder than the Huntzes themselves. “Gentile louts!” he growled, thinking of his employers, who neglected business for women, hunting, duels, and other such passions of the blood.

  True, the governor had paid a subsequent visit to the barons and had admired their collection of stuffed animals and weapons, but his visit had brought no financial gain, while Flederbaum had exploited his priority with an enormous windfall from the new railroad. Although this was supposed to be a secret, everyone knew of Flederbaum’s preknowledge of the railroad’s course—in Lodz there were no secrets.

  Flederbaum had bought up all the adjoining parcels of land for a song, then sold them back to the government for tenfold the price. All Lodz spoke of Flederbaum’s brilliant coup. The people who had sold him the land for next to nothing cursed their luck, and in the cafés and restaurants the merchants and brokers estimated the profits Flederbaum had made on the deal.

  “His hospital was paid for in spades,” was the general consensus.

  “A millionaire has both this world and the world to come,” others sighed with envy.

  Max calculated his brother’s share of the profits, and he plucked at his beard from frustration. “Those drunken bums,” he muttered against his bosses, the barons, “those dunderheads.…”

  Even though he was only their sales representative, he took a proprietary interest in everything that had to do with the factory. He was determined to become involved in its day-today operation.

  He began, as usual, by making himself useful and available. In the very first year after taking over from his father, he increased the sales volume several times over. He sent his salesmen to all parts of Russia; he wrote letters; he met with merchants and buyers; he ran around promoting the Huntze line, urging, whetting appetites. He even went to Russia himself in order to get a feel for the market.

  With scant knowledge of Russian, by nature a man of sober habits, he managed to worm his way into the graces of the hard-drinking, gregarious, expansive Russian merchants. He learned how to allow a companion to get sodden drunk while he himself remained cold sober. He arranged things so that his companions indulged their every folly while he avoided every temptation offered him.

  And although he was rewarded handsomely for his efforts and even given a substantial bonus, he wouldn’t be satisfied until he supervised every step of the factory’s operation.

  From the very first day he set foot inside the plant, his darting eyes told him that its director, the ponderous Albrecht, was lazy and totally inept. Albrecht’s policy was to leave the factory entirely on its own so that like a fine watch, it ran by itself.

  Max made his initial inroads into the factory. He gave suggestions directly to the barons on how to achieve savings, when to operate and when to shut down, what goods to prepare for the coming season. His advice was inevitably correct, and the Huntzes began to rely more and more on his judgment and not make a move without first consulting him, their court Jew, as they thought of him.

  “Where actually did you learn all this, Ashkenazi?” they asked in wonder.

  “In the Academy Talmud under Professors Abbayeh and Raba,” Max replied, struggling to keep a straight face.

  The situation began to irk the director. He perceived how the little Jew was undermining his authority, but he didn’t dare bring about an open confrontation. He was too subservient to his employers to do anything without their consent and too lazy to bother. He took comfort in the young girls Melchior provided him in steady profusion.

  Max exerted more and more influence in the factory. No longer even bothering to consult the barons, he did whatever he considered necessary to enhance production and increase profits. At the same time he kept providing his employers unlimited capital.

  In time, Albrecht himself acknowledged him his superior and did everything to curry his favor. Anyone who wanted something from the barons now called on Max first so that he might put in a good word for him with the Huntzes.

  But the incident with Flederbaum and the governor served to negate all of Max’s successes. Again Lodz spoke of Flederbaum and of his sales representative, who had been so instrumental in expediting the coup. Priveh made it a point to praise Yakub when she came calling. “You should have seen him, Dinele!” she gushed. “Like a prince riding down Piotrkow Street. Who could have dreamed it?”

  Dinele listened and sighed, and Max’s blood ran cold, even though he wouldn’t let the women see his rage and jealousy. He lived for the day when the mill would be his. If his wastrel employers didn’t give a hoot about the future of the firm, it behooved him to assume that burden.

  First, he persuaded the barons to buy out Goetzke and to form a corporation. The barons seized upon this suggestion. They had long been anxious to be rid of that lowborn boor, who refused to acknowledge their title and continued to call them by their Christian names. But since they didn’t want to take the time to carry out this action, they left it entirely to Max. For his efforts, he was awarded a large share of the stock in lieu of cash, at his own request.

  Soon afterward he came up with a new and startling innovation.

  Walking one day in the street, he suddenly spotted a woman wearing a red dress the color of which so dazzled his eyes that he was compelled to stop. The fabric was of such a vivid, bright hue that no dye known in Lodz could have achieved it.

  Max stopped to look. The woman glanced back at him and moved on. He followed. Finally, she paused beside a factory fence. He stopped, too, but he said nothing to her, merely stared. She w
aited. She was plain, no longer young, but stoutly built.

  “Why are you following me?” she asked.

  “I like your dress,” he replied quietly, embarrassed lest someone overhear.

  “I’m a respectable woman,” she said, and waited.

  “Where did you buy that dress?” he asked.

  The woman laughed. She knew that he was after something other than her dress but lacked the courage to say so. She noted that he was expensively dressed, and the situation struck her as comical.

  “I’m no streetwalker,” she said. “I’m a married woman.”

  “Maybe you would sell me your dress,” he asked. “I’ll pay you well for it.”

  The woman considered a moment. She knew that Jews murdered Christians for their blood, but she didn’t think he appeared violent. She had also heard of queer men who made fetishes of women’s garments.

  “Why do you want my dress?” she asked. “Is the gentleman making fun of me?”

  Max took out a gold ten-ruble piece and pressed it on her. Just as he had assumed, she couldn’t resist and went with him.

  She assumed that he would take her to some quiet place, but instead, he led her to his office. He sent out for a new expensive dress, and once she had changed into it, he took her cheap red one, which she had bought in Germany, where she had gone to work as a farm laborer, and handed her a gold imperial. She fled from the queer man, looking over her shoulder to make sure he didn’t follow her and snatch back the money.

  Max promptly sat down and unraveled the fabric. He knew little of women except that they loved bright, brilliant colors. He was constantly after his designers and chemists to come up with such a color, but they weren’t sufficiently knowledgeable to give him what he wanted. Their reds always emerged dull, dark, and muddy.

  He decided to go to Germany himself and learn their secrets of dyeing. Without informing even his closest associates, he acquired a foreign passport through Lippe Halfon and crossed the border. He went to Frankfurt am Main, which boasted a large colony of pious Jews. There, in the synagogues, kosher restaurants, and study houses, where even physicians weren’t ashamed to be seen wearing skullcaps and where professors spent evenings studying the Gemara, he wormed his way into the confidence of the local inhabitants. Displaying his enormous erudition, he made a good impression on the local scholars. He didn’t whine like the other Polish Jews who came to cadge money; on the contrary, he was always the first to pick up the check, and he bid a handsome sum for the privilege of reading from the Torah at the synagogue.

  He was soon put in touch with a chemist, a specialist in colors and dyes despite his poor vision, which compelled him to wear dark glasses at all times. He persuaded the man to accompany him to Lodz, where he set him up in his own secret laboratory and where he kept him isolated from the world.

  The chemist experimented until he came up with a color exactly matching that of the red dress. Once this was achieved, the factory went on round-the-clock shifts to produce the fabric for the upcoming season.

  The red material caused an instant sensation, and orders started pouring in from all over Russia. The factory couldn’t keep up with the demand, and soon the price of the fabric had to be raised. The women paid whatever prices were asked for the red fabric, which lent its wearer a younger, more alluring appearance.

  Max took his share of the profits not in cash, but in Huntze stock.

  Lodz forgot about Flederbaum and his sales representative and spoke of Max Ashkenazi’s latest stroke of genius. “He’s moving up,” people murmured as he sat huddled and preoccupied in the huge carriage that he had received from his employers in reward for his services.

  He would have felt more natural walking, but it was now beneath him to do so. He tried to interest his wife in taking advantage of the carriage. “Diana,” he offered, “if you have some errand to do, I’ll be glad to take you along. There’s lots of room.”

  “No, I’d rather walk with Mama,” she replied.

  Out of rage, Max ignored the tipped hats of the passersby and made believe he hadn’t even seen them.

  Thirty

  LODZ CAME TO A COMPLETE STANDSTILL. Like a glutton who has eaten so much he can’t take another bite until he has emptied his stomach, the city was bloated with goods.

  Not only the large industrialists but the petty manufacturers as well had bullied and prodded their workers to increase production. And in all this ferment, no cash exchanged hands. Everything ran on credit, on IOUs.

  A merchant’s son married a merchant’s daughter on IOUs. The young groom endorsed his father-in-law’s notes and obtained yarn and cotton on credit. He let the yarn out to a subcontractor and paid him with IOUs. The subcontractor endorsed the notes and paid off his workers with them. The workers added their own clumsy signatures and used the notes to pay for all their necessities.

  From cities and towns all over Poland came merchants and secondhand clothes dealers, to buy up wagonloads of goods for which they paid with IOUs. The sellers exchanged the notes for goods, services, labor. Notes were used to pay shop clerks, housemaids, tailors, teachers.

  Jobbers and commission agents raced throughout Russia, buying up huge masses of goods, for which they paid with IOUs. Everything in Lodz was available for a signature. With notes, Jews bought honors in the synagogues and made donations to their rabbis. With notes, playboy-clerks caroused in restaurants and bought wedding presents for their brides-to-be. Even the whores in the brothels and the doctors who later treated their venereal diseases were paid off with IOUs.

  Whoever was clever and cunning enough could establish a business, buy expensive furniture and jewelry, and put on a big front without possessing so much as a groschen. Each day ambitious weavers left their looms and became petty wheeler-dealers. All that was required was a bit of larceny in the soul, the ability to sign one’s name, and the fifty kopecks needed to purchase a blank IOU, the only commodity in Lodz that couldn’t be obtained on credit.

  Independent of cash, fired by the prospect of quick riches, made reckless by the fierce competition, Lodz seethed and bustled without system or order and with total disregard for the rules of supply and demand. People schemed, finagled, wheedled, and conspired, caught up in the mad, headlong rush of the city. It was a sham existence built on dreams, artifice, and paper. The only base of reality and substance was the workers.

  Suddenly it all ground to a halt. A large bone stuck in Lodz’s throat, and the city disgorged everything it had swallowed through years of unrestrained gluttony.

  To compound the problem, a drought settled over the land. The Russian Orthodox priests donned gold- and silver-embroidered vestments and carried their icons into the fields to ask Jesus and His holy mother to have mercy upon man and beast. But the sun didn’t cease beating down day after monotonous day.

  Cattle dropped from thirst and hunger. And when harvest-time finally came around, the rains came in torrents and turned the fields into soggy rot so that the little grain that remained couldn’t be reaped. The unburied animal carcasses helped spread cholera, typhoid fever, and scarlet fever. In the villages of the Ukraine, peasants drove out the Jews, who—it was rumored—had poisoned the wells. Peasants used sticks and pitchforks on students who had come to the villages to root out the epidemics with lime, pitch, and carbolic acid.

  The peasants stopped coming to towns to sell their produce, and the merchants were stuck with the goods they had imported from Lodz for the harvest season. No one had the cash with which to pay off due notes, and demands for payment began pouring down on Lodz by the tens of thousands. The manufacturers who depended upon banks for cash were left stranded as bank after bank failed.

  The first to go under were the little fish, the small manufacturers, the subcontractors, the petty yarn and cotton dealers, the dry goods merchants, shopkeepers, commission agents, brokers, and the thousands of others who had gathered like flies around the jar of honey that was Lodz. All the credit-based enterprises went up like straw in th
e mighty conflagration. People scurried about like poisoned mice, trying to sell notes for a hundredth of their face value, but there were no buyers. The great paper chain that had held the city together crumbled, sending victim afer victim to his destruction.

  The millionaire industrialists managed to withstand the shock. Sustained by their cash reserves, they merely waited for the crisis to subside. It no longer paid to operate when finished goods were worthless while raw materials soared in price from day to day. Tens of thousands of unemployed workers wandered idly through the streets.

  In Balut the handlooms were silent. The tailors, hosiers, cobblers, and gaitermakers draped their machines like so many shrouded corpses awaiting burial.

  “It’s good only for toilet paper,” grocers snapped when a worker timidly offered a note in payment for potatoes or a loaf of bread.

  The more affluent pawned the gold and diamonds they had bought during better times and sold the goods in their warehouses for whatever they could get. Others managed in other ways. Although the weather was already on the cool side, fires started breaking out mysteriously in factories, warehouses, and spinneries. All night fiery tongues licked at the heavens, sturdy firehorses pounded over the poorly paved Lodz streets, firemen’s trumpets roused people from their sleep, and as soon as the newsboys began to cry the day’s headlines, people leaped out of bed to read who had balanced their books during the night.

  Usurers and pawnbrokers made quick fortunes as people sold their remaining possessions to smuggle themselves across the border into Germany and, then, on to America.

  Only the workers and artisans had nothing to sell, barter, or turn into food or a means of escape. Gentile weavers went back to their native villages. Unmarried peasant maidens went back to their parents to help out in the fields. Jewish youths from the provinces, who had come to Lodz to make their fortunes, went back to their hometowns. The young married men parted temporarily from their wives and children, whom they sent back to their in-laws until the bad times passed.