A Good Place to Come From

by Morley Torgov

  Putting aside all false notions of nobility, the truth is that leading a smalltown Jewish community was a than less enterprise. A leader could rarely delegate authority simply because his peers were seldom—if ever—in a mood to take orders. If, however, the leader took matters into his own hands, he was forthwith accused of being autocratic and shunned anyway. The budget made generous allowances for nothing, and what little finances were available to support the rabbi-teacher-shoichet, the Sunday school, and the odd small capital purchase, depended upon the largess of two or three affluent members who had to be catered to as a rich old dowager is catered to in a hotel dining room. Decorum at meetings hung always in a precarious balance between anarchy on one hand and mass sleeping sickness on the other. A call to order at the beginning of a meeting was as futile a gesture as trying to halt a cattle stampede with a capgun. Motions to adjourn came with lightning surprise, entirely without invitation or welcome from the chair, and most of the congregants were in their cars and halfway home by the time the motion was seconded by one of the president's less disloyal constituents.

  With little hope of co-operation, no pay, and nothing to look forward to but an empty vote of gratitude when the term of office expired, was it any wonder that an intelligent man fled in terror when his fellows attempted to cast the presidential mantle upon his shoulders?

  But now, in 1944, there was a fresh occupational hazard that made filling the post even more difficult. The war, the stories of Nazi oppression of Jews, and entry into the armed forces of a dozen local Jewish young men—all these events had made our congregation the object of considerable curiosity and sympathy. Thus it was that by 1944 the usual criteria for judging presidential material had to be expanded to include one new and important requirement: the incoming president would have to know how to handle himself among ''the goyim.''

  Fully aware of this new turn of events, the "press gang," a quartet of self-appointed kingmakers in the Jewish community, gathered to pore over the list of potential chief executives. Their headquarters was the workroom at the rear of Wiseman's Bakery on Queen Street. Save that the room was filled with the aroma of freshly-baked bread rather than cigar smoke, it resembled any back room where major political decisions are made. A swinging door with a tiny peek-through window separated the workroom from the public premises at the front. On the door was tacked a handwritten sign: Private Keep Out!

  In the days before the Gin Rummy Club rented luxurious quarters (one room about fifteen by twelve with adjoining toilet) over Kleiman's Hardware, the closest thing in town to a Jewish men's club was Wiseman's Bakery. To this place the men would escape in the evenings, having assured their wives they would only be gone long enough to buy a fresh loaf for tomorrow's breakfast. Here too they discussed important questions of the day: how come the town's most aggressive merchant managed to stage three anniversary sales within a single year? Was there some brand new element of time in the universe known only to him? And how come the town's least lucky merchant was running another goingout-of-business sale? How many times in a single year, in a single store, could a man go out of business? Whose son was sleeping regularly with a "Talyainichka" from the west end? And was it any big surprise, considering the son's father had been residing off and on with a "Polyachka" for years?

  These musings were presided over by Wiseman himself. Bearing the physique of a grizzled old drayman, Wiseman flopped about flat-footedly in his oversize flour-covered shoes, one minute gruffly attending a customer out front, the next minute bear-hugging a hundred-pound sack of flour and transporting it from one end of the workroom to the other, moments later returning to the long worktable laden with small mounds of dough waiting obediently in neat rows to be shovelled into the hearth by their master.

  The men, seated at the worktable, were impatient. The July heat and the heat from Wiseman's hearth were almost too much, even when urgent affairs of state were on the agenda.

  "Come on, Wiseman, put all this chazerai in the oven and let's get down to business."

  Having fed his ovens, Wiseman sat down on a high stool, his broad wrestler's hands resting squarely on his baggy knees. The House was now officially in session.

  "So who's it going to be?" he began.

  The first order of business—as it had been for years—was for the members of the press gang to disqualify themselves from the running. Of one mind when it came to the perils of electioneering, they agreed that they would be far more content to carry on as the powers behind the power. Not for them the big armchair, the head table, and the gavel. Better to sit in the shadowy background and watch "their man" perform, dosing him with flattery when his morale lagged, and lacerating him with scorn when he dared depart from their advice.

  Once again they reviewed the list of desirable qualities.

  "It's got to be somebody who loves punishment ... or somebody who's crazy for a little honour and publicity ... or somebody who's a complete fool ... or somebody who's got lots of time and nothing better to do ...''

  "Plus"—Wiseman pointed an index finger skyward for emphasis—"plus he's got to be presentable when he goes among goyim."

  The others agreed. That was the main requirement now. They needed a candidate who was reasonably fluent in English and who "looked good" too.

  "Maybe we should hire Rockefeller if it's gotta be such a fancy duke," one man suggested.

  "We don't need a Rockefeller," Wiseman replied. "You'll see, we'll go through the list, we'll find some damn fool who fills the bill." Wiseman beckoned imperiously to the committee secretary. "Read the list and we'll decide one by one."

  The reading of the list began in alphabetical order. "Altman."

  "Altman's out. His health won't stand it."

  "What do you mean his health won't stand it? We're not asking him to fight Joe Louis.''

  "He gets colds too easy. He wouldn't last past November eleventh. Don't you remember last year they invited the president to lay a wreath on Armistice Day at the cenotaph in front of the courthouse? The poor sonofabitch froze his tuchis off and was sick in bed for two weeks afterwards. No, Altman's condition isn't up to it, I tell you."

  "Berger is next."

  "Berger's out too. He's just too goddam smart, and you can't trust a smart guy. Besides, he uses a lot of fancy English words which he doesn't even know the meaning. A real show-off."

  "Cramer?"

  "Cramer you can forget about," one of the committee said. "He's got his hands full now, that's for sure." The men nodded sympathetically. Cramer did indeed have his hands full, having been charged with numerous violations of the law by an implacable inspector from the Wartime Prices Control Board.

  Dorff was out of the question. He had his hands full with his wife and mother-in-law watching his every move. "They even follow him to the toilet," one of the committee said, "to see if he's hiding money there."

  "Einhorn?"

  Ineligible. Einhorn had served one term In the presidency several years ago and hadn't spoken to half the men in the congregation since.

  So it went, on down the list, greatness still waiting to be thrust upon some one unsuspecting member of the Jewish community.

  At last the committee came to R for Rosen.

  "Rosen! Ah, here ... here is a possibility," one of the men piped up. "Think about it. He's vain like a peacock... do you know he's the only storekeeper in town who parades around in the summer in white shoes?"

  "And you know something else," another volunteered, "he's the only one that when he goes to Toronto on a buying trip he carries a briefcase around with him on Spadina Avenue."

  "A briefcase! You're lying—"

  "So help me God it's the truth may my children never have a good day if I'm lying. One of the coat manufacturers told me, and I believe him."

  A briefcase: field marshals had their batons, bishops their mitres, lord mayors their chains of office. But a merchant carrying a briefcase as he made his rounds in Toronto's garment district—that had to be the last word in sy
mbols of pomp and grandeur. Not for Rosen suitpockets stuffed with memos and invoices. Rosen had a briefcase, with his initials embossed in gold below the handle and cardboard files inside all arranged in order. Such vanity was unheard of.

  "Didn't I tell you he's a peacock?" said the first critic.

  "The man loves attention, no doubt about it," said the second.

  "He must be a fool if he can't carry his business affairs in his head," said the third.

  "A briefcase yet," said the fourth. "Have you ever heard of anything so goyish?"

  With this last remark, the presidential nail had been hit on the head. The committee realized they had their man.

  The following night the press gang invited Rosen to Wiseman's Bakery ostensibly for an innocent game of poker. The approach was subtle—a couple of hours of card-playing, tea, spongecake, bits and pieces of local gossip. Eventually one of the players brought up the U.S. presidential race.

  "That fella Dewey, he's gotta be some schvantz. Imagine taking on a giant of a man like Roosevelt. Only a hundred percent meshuganer would do such a thing!"

  Wiseman, alert to this opening signal, immediately carried the play forward. "And for what? For a little power? A little honour? Who needs it. Life's too short."

  "Oh, I don't know," Rosen said quietly, leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed on some distant invisible horizon. He was deep in his own thoughts, no doubt speculating on how he would conduct his campaign if he were Thomas E. Dewey. "A man always has to reach longer than his arms. Otherwise nothing gets accomplished in this world," he said.

  There was a quick exchange of glances among the members of the press gang. Rosen was clearly available. But one never pulls suddenly on the line when one has hooked a big fish. One has to "play" the line, now letting out a little, now pulling in a little; then, when all instincts are precisely right, there occurs a split second of unity when captor and captive fuse and become as one. That split second was at hand.

  "I don't agree with you, Rosen," Wiseman said, making certain at the same time to refill Rosen's glass with hot tea. "A man's got to know his limits. Some of us are meant to be presidents, and some of us just aren't. That's all there is to it."

  "Ach, that's old-country talk," Rosen said, plunking four pieces of lumpsugar into the steaming tea. "In Russia, in Poland, they always told you that you had to know your place. You were born a tailor? Then stay a tailor. Born a butcher? Stay a butcher. In America it's different. Why shouldn't Dewey be the president? Is Roosevelt God or something that he's always got to be Number One? Suppose they had told Abraham Lincoln he shouldn't bother running because he was born in such a lousy log cabin that I wouldn't even park my car there, wouldn't that have been a tragedy?"

  "But Lincoln," protested one of the committee, "was no ordinary man, you know. This man was pretty special. A really self-made man."

  "We're all self-made men," Rosen interjected. "Tell me, did anybody hand you your businesses on a silver platter?" The men nodded thoughtfully; Rosen had a point.

  "But Lincoln had a lot of talent," one of the men countered. "What gift of the gab. Did you ever read any of his speeches and his sayings? A golden tongue, that's what the man was blessed with."

  Rosen was unimpressed. "Golden schmolden. You talk long enough in public you get used to being a big talker. All it takes is nerve and practice. A genius you don't have to be. Look at Mackenzie King. There was a time you wouldn't go from one end of this room to the other to hear the man talk. But today he's Prime Minister already a few years so everybody hangs on his words. Everybody says my goodness that man has a way of putting things. And look at the other King, the one in England. A stutterer, poor man. But when he's got to talk, he talks, and pretty good too. Did you hear him last Christmas? It's nerve, that's all."

  "So how many of us have that kind of nerve?" Wiseman asked.

  "We all have," Rosen replied. "Didn't we come to this country not knowing a single word of English. I went to a cheder in Poland; you think they taught me English there? No sir, I had nerve when I came here and today I can talk to people—to goyim—like I was born here, and they don't even know the difference. I was just saying to Reverend Ferguson's wife yesterday—"

  "Reverend Ferguson's wife?" one of the men broke in. "She shops in your store?"

  "Sure, what do you think, she shops only in goyishe stores? She comes in, I give her twenty off automatically. I'd like to see her get a discount at Eaton's. Bupkes Eaton's'll give her off."

  "He comes in too?"

  "The Reverend? Sure, lots of times. We even have some very interesting conversations. He's really a fine goy."

  Unwittingly the fish had placed himself in the category of a catch. Wiseman prepared to net him.

  "You know something, Rosen," the baker said, offering more spongecake, "you're a lucky fella. In fact it's more than luck; you're a smart fella. Believe me, I'd like to have cusomers like the Fergusons they should buy from me."

  Rosen, a little smug now, shook his head reprovingly. "People like the Fergusons don't buy rye bread and pumpernickel," he scoffed. "You have to know how to deal with their kind. They're not Polyacken or Talyainer, you know. With goyim like the Fergusons you talk first about the weather, about the news. You got to pretend you don't even give a damn if they buy or they don't buy because it's such a pleasure to have their company. Then, when they're good and ready, they tell you what they're looking for."

  "You sure know how to deal with those people," Wiseman said.

  "It's not just a matter of dealing any more," Rosen said, smugness having expanded into pride. "I've been Ferguson's guest already at the Rotary Club."

  These were the magic words the committee had been waiting for. Of all the service clubs in town, the Rotary Club was the most prestigious. Eagerly the men questioned Rosen. Whom had he been seated with? Was his bank manager there? What did they serve for lunch and was he able to eat it? Who was the guest speaker? All these queries Rosen answered in great detail, relishing the special status he now occupied in his listeners' eyes. One of the men asked, "Did they say grace before they ate, like you see in the movies?"

  Rosen beamed. "Did they say grace? You should hear the grace they said. It was such a grace, believe me every Jew in this town should only have such a grace before he sits down to eat. I only wish my wife and kids could have been there. They called naturally on the Reverend to say grace. Well, let me tell you, that man made a speech, there were tears in my eyes. He said they should thank God they not only had a good lunch coming but that—and listen to this—but that God was allowing them to share it with one of their distinguished—so help me God he said distinguished—Jewish neighbours. And you know what else—such a fine goy—he didn't use the name of Jesus once, not once! That's what I call a mensch."

  Were there incongruities here? Subtleties not easily discerned? Lapses of logic? Unexplained differences and unbridgeable gaps? Perhaps, but it didn't matter. By all outward signs and superficial standards, Rosen was the perfect man for the job, a man whose time had come.

  Looking Rosen directly in the eye with an earnestness he reserved for moments when he was being truly insincere, Wiseman, his voice quavering, spoke. "Rosen," he said, "you know it'll soon be time for us to elect a new president." There was a sense of history in the atmosphere. All eyes were on Rosen. "We've decided that the best man for the job ... is you."

  There was dead silence, so much so that the sound of the crusts browning in the hearth could be heard. Rosen looked at the men around him, one by one. "You're out of your goddam minds," he said at last. "You're crazy in the head if you think I would take on such a lousy job. Better I should commit suicide. Show me a man, show me one single man, who hasn't had anything but the greatest aggravation from being president. Look at Einhorn; to this day he doesn't talk to half the people in this congregation and it's already five six years since he was president."

  Why argue? Rosen was absolutely right. So the press gang remained silent, permitting their
catch to thrash about and convulse in the net. He would soon give one last heave, one last massive gasp, and lie still in total submission to the public will. Meanwhile they listened politely as Rosen reviewed the record of the past dozen presidencies. Each and every leader had left behind a trail of bitterness and discontent. "No thank you," Rosen concluded, "like I said before, suicide would be better."

  One of the committee made as if to counter with a point, but Wiseman quickly raised a hand to command silence.

  "You should see how the goyim run things at their clubs," Rosen went on. "You should just see the way they got everything organized with committees and reports and rules and regulations just like in Parliament. If I was president, believe me, things would be run the way they run them, not the way we run them.''

  "If I was president ..." More magic words. Rosen was beginning to visualize himself in office. That was good. Without any urging, Rosen continued to spell out his reform program. "I would see that there was proper respect, and proper order. No more cross-talk and back-talk. No more jumping up in the middle of a meeting and saying to hell with it I move it's time to go home. And everybody on the executive would have to be called by their proper titles: Mr. President, Mr. Secretary, Mr. Treasurer."

  The committee, including Wiseman, began to look just the slightest bit uneasy. Rosen, unaware of this reaction, warmed increasingly to his vision of the new order. "I would even have the rabbi give an opening benediction, like they do with their minister."

  An opening benediction? The men looked at each other in disbelief. One asked hesitantly, "In what language?" "In English, of course. You want dignity, don't you?" No one responded. What, after all, did they want? Dignity? Decorum? Please Mr. Chairman, thank you Mr. Chairman, briefcases, filing systems? These were men who carried their own business affairs filed in the channels of their brains and on the backs of used envelopes. These were men who knew each other as Itzik and Yoshka and Yamkeh and more often by unflattering nicknames—The Weasel, Chooligan, Der Roiter, Grosser Verdiener. Were they now to be transformed into mock-Christians? And in the space of a single year under Rosen's administration? True, this was 1944, not 1934 or 1924; the younger generation, Canadian-born, English-oriented, would soon be moving in to take over community activities. The men couldn't go on forever doing things old-country style. Or could they?