by I. J. Singer
“Don’t put it all on me,” Dinele said. “Do as you see right.”
The girl leaped to her feet and rose up on tiptoe just as her father did when he came to a decision. The mother saw it and shuddered.
Gertrud ran to tell Yakub the good news.
Forty-Six
IT WAS JUST AFTER NEW YEAR. The great conference room at the Huntze mill was set up for the annual stockholders’ meeting. The huge tables were covered with green cloths and surrounded with deep leather chairs. Boxes of Havana cigars were laid out for the gentlemen’s pleasure. Assistant directors and managers shuffled around, looking for something to do to be helpful. Melchior, his muttonchops already gray, but his face as ruddy and vital as ever, stood erect by the door in his forest green livery, his hamlike hands along the seams of his breeches.
The board of directors represented the elite of Lodz—several German industrialists, a Jewish banker or two, a stray Polish aristocrat, a wizened dowager in incredibly old-fashioned attire, and, naturally, the Barons Huntze, trying to look bored and blasé, superior to the entire proceedings. Despite all their airs, they looked like horse grooms in monocles.
The mill director, Max Ashkenazi, was in a very jovial mood. His English suit bagged a bit, as usual, but his face was clean-shaven except for the wisp of beard which had been neatly brushed for the occasion. Each dot in his velvet vest seemed to protrude individually. Unfortunately he had no potbelly, as would have befitted a man of importance, and he compensated by walking with the abdomen thrust out. He also rose on tiptoe whenever he addressed someone taller than he.
The meeting hadn’t yet been called, and those assembled milled through the large conference room, blowing clouds of cigar smoke at the royal portraits that still hung from the days when old Heinz Huntze had been in charge. They studied the various medals, blueprints, diagrams, photographs, plans, drawings, and charts displayed on the walls. Director Ashkenazi pointed to a chart which revealed that since his sinecure, the factory work force had grown from 3,000 to 8,000 men and women. The number of looms had increased accordingly.
“Be kind enough to glance at this, madam and gentlemen,” he said, pointing to another chart. “As you see, the line representing the rate of production has mounted annually, except in one place, which represents that one flighty year when Lodz was busier striking than working. But soon, as you will notice, the rate of increase started climbing again, and we made up all the losses in a jiffy.”
“Excellent,” the board members agreed. “Very, very fine.”
“Parallel to that, as you can see, is the rate of growth of our sales. Observe this map, if you will. The little flags represent the new markets we have opened up.”
Ashkenazi’s finger traveled the length and breadth of the Russian Empire, from the Vistula to the Amur, from China to Persia.
“Lately we’ve even gone beyond the borders,” he added slyly. He compared the current map with previous ones predating his association with the firm.
“Since I was honored with the title of sales representative, we’ve managed to capture all these territories,” he said with the air of a Genghis Khan.
“Very, very nice!” the directors chimed.
“And finally, all this has been accompanied by a corresponding rise in the value of Huntze stock.”
Afterward, disdaining the assistance of the engineers and without consulting notes, Ashkenazi led the group on a tour of the huge factory, which was separated from the rest of the world by a high brick wall topped with sharp pickets.
The huge courtyard was crowded with sheds and storehouses, but few workers were in evidence. The heart of the operation lay underground.
“Madam and gentlemen, you will observe in sequence how the raw goods come in by train and emerge as the finished product baled and ready for shipment.”
Through subterranean passages illuminated by red electric lamps, Ashkenazi led his little group to the railroad tracks that ran inside the factory itself. Cranes with huge metal jaws lifted incoming bales of cotton, barrels of dye, and crates of machinery and gracefully lowered them to waiting workers, who loaded them onto carts and wheeled them off to their place of storage.
“Mind the chains and hooks, madam and gentlemen,” Ashkenazi warned. “And now, let us proceed.”
He led them inside the boiler rooms, where the heat was a solid presence. Stokers shoveled coal into open, fiery yaws. Foremen fussed with gauges and thermostats. The stokers, stripped to the waist, their bodies covered with grime and soot, spit out their hand-rolled cigarettes and gazed with dulled eyes at the elegant, soft-bellied spectators. The stockholders recoiled from the blistering heat.
“More coal,” the head stoker shouted at the younger men busy grabbing a quick snack of bread washed down by mugs of chicory.
From the boiler rooms, Ashkenazi led the group to the weaving rooms. Across huge halls stretched seemingly endless rows of looms. Women, mostly young, stood knotting threads that the machine had snipped, removing and replacing bobbins.
“How do you manage to hear in all this racket, Herr Director?” the visitors asked above the roar of machinery.
“It’s merely a matter of getting used to it,” Ashkenazi replied, and pointed out the course of the thread as it wound its way through the various wheels, arms, and rollers.
From here they proceeded to the washing, dyeing, and bleaching areas.
“Careful, madam and gentlemen, mind the wet floor.”
A giant cloud of steam, moisture, and stench hovered over the dyeing rooms. The directors grimaced at the half-naked workers clattering in wooden clogs over the slippery stone floors. They laundered the goods, rinsed and dried them before huge ovens, steamed them, threw them into bins, and passed them through the press.
By now the visitors had had enough, but Ashkenazi wouldn’t let them go. He made sure to stop to talk with every foreman, chemist, and designer. He even escorted his group into the shipping rooms, where the girls packed the goods for shipment.
The only ones not taking the tour were the Barons Huntze. They despised the sight, sound, and smell of their factory. They wouldn’t dirty their boots in such a pigsty or rub elbows with the rabble in their employ. Instead, they waited in their palace, consuming cocktails until the meeting was called.
They deeply resented having been called away from their winter sports in the Tyrol Mountains to come to stinking Lodz. Besides, they were a bit apprehensive. Although they hadn’t kept accurate count, they sensed that they had sold off too much of their stock. And as if out of spite, their luck had been running particularly bad lately. They therefore threw down drink after drink, waiting for the meeting to be called.
When they finally deigned to make their appearance, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone waited for the eldest Huntze brother to take his customary place at the head of the table and conduct the meeting, but at that moment Director Ashkenazi rang a little bell and made an announcement.
“Madam and gentlemen, I have the honor to report that at this time sixty percent of the firm’s shares are registered in the name of Max Ashkenazi. According to the by-laws of the corporation, it therefore falls upon me to chair this meeting.”
A deadly silence fell over the room. All eyes turned to the barons, then to Ashkenazi, then back to the barons, who exchanged glances but kept silent. A strained, pregnant pause followed, to be broken by Board Chairman Ashkenazi.
“Madam and gentlemen, this meeting is hereby called to order,” he announced, and took his place at the head of the table. His every word and gesture expressed the pomp and authority of the King of Lodz.
The factory officials approached with the same deference they had previously accorded the Barons Huntze. “All is in readiness, Mr. President,” they announced, placing their reports before him. The barons didn’t stay through the meeting but dashed back to their palace.
“Faster, you swine!” they bullied the servants packing their belongings. “We want out of this Jewish pesthole bef
ore night!”
By the time their train left that evening they were blind drunk.
All night the Lodz newspapers hustled to prepare news of the startling development for the morning editions, but it was a waste of time since within hours, all Lodz knew about it. In palaces and in restaurants, in stores and in theaters, in studyhouses and in marketplaces, in workshops and in cafés; in every den, rathole, and cubicle, people talked of nothing else but the new King of Lodz.
Forty-Seven
THE LUSH SLEEPING CAR COMPARTMENT of the Petersburg-Warsaw-Paris Express carried the director of the Flederbaum mill and his young bride to their honeymoon in Nice.
Before their eyes stretched miles of fields heavy with snow. Frozen telegraph wires bowed beneath their burden, and peasant shacks were buried to their roofs. The powerful locomotive sliced joyously through drifts cleared by peasants, who lined the rails waiting for the train to pass so that they could begin anew. Snowcapped Jesuses on wayside crosses were tilted, and icy black crows soared against reddish skies, presaging more cold and snow.
“Gertrud, did you remember to pack our bathing suits?” Yakub asked, running his fingers through his bride’s copper curls.
“Bathing suits?” she repeated, looking at him.
“Of course! In two days we’ll be bathing in the Mediterranean.”
“Oh, what a wonderful world this is, Yakub,” Gertrud exulted. “What fun it will be to spend a winter month amid sunshine and palm trees. I’d like to see the border already. It’ll be the first time I’ve been out of the country.… Are you happy, Yakub?”
“Delirious, my child.”
“But not as happy as I,” she said, snuggling up to him. “A man is simply incapable of being as happy as a woman. He doesn’t have it in him.”
She covered his eyes, lips, and hands with kisses. “Bear, great big fuzzy bear,” she purred. “I want you to devour me!”
She wouldn’t leave their compartment or let him out even to buy a cigar or exchange a few words with a fellow passenger. Even during meals she clung to him, whispering endearments in his ear.
“Gertrud, behave,” he admonished her as if she were a child. “People are staring.”
“I don’t want to behave.” She pouted. “Let them stare all they want. As long as I have you … you.…”
In the crack express racing past frontiers and countries, they drained their cup of happiness. Caught up in her ecstasy, Gertrud sank to her knees before her husband and kissed his feet with slavish devotion.
“My lord, my master, my prince, my king!” she panted.
Across frozen streams, snowy fields, and forests, weighed down by a heavy valise, escorted by a pair of hard-bitten thugs with murderous eyes, Nissan Eibeshutz made his way toward the German border.
He had risen high in his party’s central executive committee, the Tsay-ee-kah, and he was headed for the party’s international conclave abroad. He tumbled into snowbanks; he forded icy streams; he fell to the ground and held his breath each time he heard a suspicious sound. But he continued to push closer to his goal. Finally, one of the brutes grunted, “Kraut territory just across the river. Let’s push on!”
Nissan stepped out onto the ice, his brain overflowing with notions, plans, ideas.
The former palace of the late Baron Heinz Huntze was now occupied by one of much higher rank—the new King of Lodz. Following the takeover of their firm by the little Jew who had come to them so fawningly years ago, the Barons Huntze had severed all connections with the city they had always despised. Having no further reason to come there now, they offered to sell their palace along with the remaining stock they still held for a song, and Max Ashkenazi bought both.
Not that he had any more use for a palace than he did for carriages or servants. But being King of Lodz, he wanted all the trappings that went with the office. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to live there. Besides, all the industrialists in Lodz occupied palaces next to their factories, and he didn’t want to buck tradition. The barons were anxious for the cash, and he took the place over—lock, stock, and barrel, the Huntze coat of arms included.
Inside the huge high-ceilinged rooms, Max Ashkenazi seemed even smaller than he was. He and his second wife took their meals in the immense dining hall, the table of which could have seated thirty-six diners. The brown paneled walls, the massive carved buffets; the many-antlered chandeliers; the paintings of gory, shot-ridden fowl oppressed the couple and rendered them silent. If they spoke at all, it was in whispers.
The liveried butler and footmen served exotic dishes with glacial disdain. The husband and wife barely touched the gentile dishes or the rare wines brought up from the cellar. The enormous wolfhound that had come with the palace lay on the rug, watching his new master and mistress suspiciously. He knew that they were terrified of him. When the mistress offered him a plateful of scraps, he didn’t even bother to get up. He was eating too well to bother with scraps.
“Stuck-up beast!” she remarked to her husband. “What do we need him for around here anyway?”
If anything, Max was even more afraid of the dog than she was, but he was a part of the palace, part of his realm, and he would do nothing to diminish that realm.
“Let him be,” he said.
The meals were interminable. The servants moved at their own pace. Long minutes passed between courses. Ashkenazi was on pins and needles, anxious to get back to the factory, but he didn’t dare leave the table until the butler brought the box of Havana cigars signifying the end of the meal. Only then did he bolt like a boy let out of heder.
Even more unendurable were Max’s nights.
For hours on end the maid primped and prepared Madam Ashkenazi for bed. She braided her sparse, grizzled, wiry hair. She rubbed creams and lotions into her rough skin. She dressed her in the costliest gowns of lace, silk, and tulle. The broad Louis XV bed with its blue satin canopy and profusion of silk pillows, cushions, and blankets was soft and inviting.
But all the salves, lotions, perfumes, and soaps; all the lace, silk, and tulle; all the soft lights couldn’t conceal the shapeless form, the gravelly complexion, the sparse, wiry hair done up in girlish bows. An iciness exuded from the massive body, freed of its corsets, stays, and bands. Each leg was like a tree stump. Each chin quivered like jellied fish broth. The bed creaked beneath Madam Ashkenazi’s bulk.
“Max!” she trilled flirtatiously. “Why aren’t you coming to bed?”
Although she tried to invest her voice with tenderness, it emerged a hoarse bass, and a chill gripped Max Ashkenazi’s heart. Like a man walking to the gallows, he strode heavily toward his bride.
A painting of a satyr pursuing a nude maiden loomed above the bed. The girl suddenly reminded Max of Dinele—the same slim, shapely form; the brown ringlets cascading down the shoulders.
He slept fitfully amid the down, silk, and lace. The palace clocks chimed mournfully. They reminded him of church bells as he counted off hour after hour through the long winter night. No matter how he twisted or turned, he couldn’t get comfortable. The pillow suddenly seemed as though it were made of stone.
He put on a robe, and quietly, so as not to disturb his wife, he got out of bed. With a candle in hand he walked through the maze of rooms and halls, many of which he had never seen before. He was revolted by it all—the animal heads with the horns and glass eyes; the swords, spears, axes, and daggers glinting with un-Jewish ferocity. Strange visions flashed before him: of riots, pogroms, Chmielnicki’s massacres, of autos-da-fé, Jews choosing the stake to conversion.…
Pagan statuary and paintings were everywhere. Hunters held birds dripping blood; hounds battled bears; knights thrust lances into men and into real and fanciful beasts; satyrs, fauns, centaurs, nymphs, and bacchantes cavorted lasciviously.
Max looked up. They all were his, but they seemed to mock him, the little Jew wandering like a frightened child through the gentile palace on a winter’s night.
He went into the dining hall. The brow
n walls and high carved ceilings were veiled in nightly shadows. There was wine on the credenza, but he didn’t drink, even though he was depressed. The dog awoke, glanced at his master through slitted eyes, opened his huge jaw in a yawn, then sank back into the soft rug.
Dinele’s image flashed before Max’s eyes. Where was she? What was she doing? Did she plan to remarry or remain single?
What did it matter? They were no longer together. He had to think about practical matters. Still, her image wouldn’t leave him. From Dinele his thoughts drifted to his children. Ignatz was in Paris. It would be interesting to see how he looked. He was probably tall, taller than his father. After all, he took completely after his mother.
As for Gertrud, she had treated him, her father, abominably. Without even consulting him she had rushed into an incestuous marriage. She could have had anybody and had chosen that pervert, that reprobate.
Max envisioned his beautiful young daughter with his brother, and his flesh crawled. He had seduced the gullible child just to spite him, Max. He could imagine Yakub laughing at him, savoring his revenge.…
What had that lout done to deserve this? First it was Kalman Eisen’s granddaughter, then Flederbaum’s daughter, and now—What did they see in him anyway? He was an empty-headed fool, an irresponsible dunce, who at the height of the season dropped everything to run off to the Riviera. Oh, yes, he knew all about his movements. Shlomele Knaster kept him informed.
Max pulled the robe tighter around him. His resentment of Yakub set his teeth to chattering. There he was with his fresh young bride, while he, Max, had to go to—
He shrank and grew dwarfed inside the high-ceilinged hall. The clocks tolled away the hours. He went to the window and parted the Venetian blind. The factory loomed oppressively, its stacks thrust upward as if the walls had stuck out their tongues. He felt a chill and padded back to bed. The bronze Mephistopheles on a corner stand bared his teeth in a mocking grin at the King of Lodz.