by Sam Gafford
The rabbi thought for a moment. “Cohen, Cohen. We have a number of Cohens in our temple here, but I cannot say that I recall him. Are you sure he worshipped here?”
I was watching the aide. Although the rabbi didn’t remember Cohen, the mention of the name obviously made an impression on the younger man. I wondered if Arthur had noticed this as well.
“I can’t say for certain. I just assumed that he was. We were hoping to find out where his family lived so that we could pay our respects.”
“Well,” the rabbi said, “assuming that the fellow was Jewish, his family would be sitting shiva for him now, which is a private mourning. Not one that I would recommend interrupting. I don’t know what else I can tell you gentlemen. I don’t know anyone by that name and I can definitely say that I have not been contacted to preside at any funerals recently, thankfully. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I was tempted to state that he hadn’t really helped us at all when Arthur piped up with, “No, our apologies, rabbi. We’re sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother. I am sorry for your loss and I hope that you do find your friend’s family. Lehitraot.” The rabbi shook our hands and walked back through the door in the back.
The younger man had remained.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t be of any help, sirs. Good luck with your search.”
“Thank you,” Arthur said. “I don’t believe we got your name.”
He shook Arthur’s hand. “It’s Myron, Myron Kurtzberg. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my duties.”
“Of course, Mr. Kurtzberg, of course. So when was the last time you saw Jacob Cohen?”
Kurtzberg swallowed nervously.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr.—?”
“Machen, Arthur Machen. This is my associate, Albert Besame. You do know what we’re talking about, Mr. Kurtzberg. Your reaction to my mention of Cohen’s name was quite different from your rabbi’s.”
The young man was getting nervous now.
“I—I can’t talk here. There’s a little coffee place around the corner from here. Would you meet me there in about fifteen minutes? I can tell the rabbi I have to run an errand, but he can’t see me standing here talking to you like this.”
“That would be fine, Mr. Kurtzberg, but please don’t keep us waiting long. I would hate to have to come back and have another talk with your rabbi.”
We left the temple and quickly found the coffee place Kurtzberg had mentioned. It was actually a little restaurant called Goldberg’s, and they had several tables on the sidewalk. A young woman quickly came out and asked for our order. I had no idea what to order but Arthur, as usual, seemed right at home. In quick succession, he blurted out several words in a language I could only assume was Hebrew, and the waitress went away as quickly as she had come.
“Do you think Kurtzberg will come?”
“Without a doubt. He knew Cohen and he is very anxious to keep the rabbi from knowing that fact. What I am curious about is whether the rabbi knew Cohen and was deliberately keeping that fact from us. If so, I wonder why he would want us to think that he didn’t know Cohen. What could Cohen have done to make his rabbi disavow him?”
Faster than I could have expected, our waitress returned with a plate containing two coffees and food such as I had never seen before.
There was an assortment of what I imagine were desserts or treats. The first one I noticed was a round, doughy type thing that had a depression in the middle. It looked as if it had been baked after something had been placed in the dent. Another thing looked like some sort of cookie that had a flat bottom and a round top. It looked like one-third of a circle, and I think I saw almonds in it. A third item was a three-corner pastry pocket that had some fruit oozing out of it. The last treat on the plate was a sort of rolled cookie that seemed to have cream cheese and fruit in it.
Everything smelled delicious.
“What is all this?”
Arthur smiled and said, “It’s a little ‘mouth opener’ for our new friend. I’m thinking that, as a rabbi’s assistant, he probably doesn’t have a lot of money and can’t afford a spread like this. It might help loosen his tongue.
“The round one is called a bialy. It’s like a bagel but it’s totally baked. The stuff in the centre is usually onions, and this one seems to have some garlic and poppy seeds. The little cookie with the round top is mandelbread. It’s made with sweet butter, fresh eggs, lots of fresh orange and lemon zest, and scented with real vanilla. It’s actually one of my favourites.”
He took one from the tray and ate it in two quick bites. I could smell the zest as he bit into it. My mouth was watering.
“The three-corner pastry is hamentaschen. It’s usually only available during Purim, which is a Jewish holiday in the middle of winter. I was quite surprised to smell it when we sat down, so I had to order it. They have a butter cookie crust and a variety of fillings. There are cream cheese, vanilla bean, and also some apple butter ones.
“Finally, we have what is probably the Jews greatest contribution to dessert, rugelach. It’s a cream cheese pastry rolled around toasted walnuts, currants, and lots of cinnamon sugar. Absolutely delicious. You haven’t lived until you’ve had this. Try one!”
I took one from the tray and tentatively put it to my lips. The second I did so, I realised that it was one of the best things I’d ever eaten. I devoured it quickly and immediately found myself feeling sad that it was all gone. Luckily, there were still three or four on the place.
Arthur laughed. “Please leave some for our guest who, if I’m not mistaken, is coming towards us now.”
I turned to look, and it was indeed Mr. Kurtzberg walking down the street. He looked very harried and nervously glanced around him.
Arthur stood and welcomed Myron. “Please join us, Mr. Kurtzberg. May I call you Myron?”
The young man’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the pastry. “Oh, yes, of course. Myron would be fine.”
He sat down and quickly filled a plate with one of each of the treats.
“I hope that the food is to your liking, Myron?” Arthur asked.
Barely stopping to speak, he replied, “Oh, my, yes. I don’t often get the chance to eat like this.”
“Please take your time and enjoy the food. Albert, the same goes for you. Let us all partake of this wonderful selection of pastry.”
While we were busy eating, the waitress came back out with a coffee for Myron, which he gladly drank as if he had been a drowning man we had found in the desert.
When our pace slackened, Arthur put down his napkin and said, in his calmest voice, “Now, Myron, perhaps you can tell us why Rabbi Rabinowitz pretended not to know Jacob Cohen.”
Myron coughed a bit and quickly drained the rest of his coffee.
“How did you know that?”
“I wasn’t sure, until now. You just confirmed it for me, but can you explain why?”
Myron looked ashamed, and I felt bad for putting him in such a situation. Still, we had to find the book, and I sensed that we were running out of time.
“It’s not as easy as all that,” Myron said. “I grew up with Jacob in the Minories, not all that far from here. It’s a hard life, to be sure, but Jacob never seemed to have any breaks.”
“I can’t believe that you two were the same age. He looked so much older than you,” I said.
“A hard life in the Minories of the East End will make anyone look older than his years,” Myron replied. “Jacob’s father was a tailor, but he liked his drink a little too much. One day, in a drunken rage, Jacob’s father murdered Jacob’s mother in front of him. Seeing such a thing changes even the strongest man, so you can only imagine the affect it had on a young boy.
“Well, I was already studying in the yeshiva, and the rabbi took Jacob into his own home and enrolled him in my yeshiva. But I’m afraid that Jacob’s interests were no longer in studying the Torah. He had a little too much of his father in h
im. Soon he was skipping classes altogether and began to indulge his baser instincts. I’m sorry to say that he began to take to drink very heavily.”
Myron looked at the remaining pastry, but even he seemed to have lost his appetite.
“What happened then?” Machen asked.
“Ah, the rabbi did all that he could. He spent many an hour talking with Jacob, but it didn’t help much. Jacob had set his feet on a path away from us and the faith, and there was little anyone could do. Still, it came to a head when the rabbi caught Jacob stealing from the temple. After that, the rabbi disowned Jacob and threw him out of the temple and his house. On that day, Rabbi Rabinowitz sat his own shiva for Jacob because he considered Jacob dead from that moment.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but what is a shiva? This is the second time I’ve heard it mentioned.”
“Oh, yes, sorry. Sometimes I forget that not everyone knows our customs. When one of our community dies, it is customary for the family to gather in the home of the deceased and spend the next week mourning. This consists of praying, eating, and remembering the one who has passed.”
“The rabbi felt betrayed by Jacob?” Arthur asked.
“Just so. Not the holiest of reactions, I know, but the rabbi and his family suffered greatly at Jacob’s hands. Not only the theft but abusive words and actions.”
“What of Jacob’s family? Why didn’t they take him when his mother was killed?”
“Well, there really wasn’t much of a family to speak of. His parents came over from Poland during the pogrom, and I think many of their relatives died there before they could escape. Jacob told me that he had some cousins he used to play with occasionally, but I don’t know what side of the family they were from or even if they were truly related. In any case, I don’t think that the rabbi would have allowed any of them to take Jacob.”
“Why ever not? I mean, if they were his family, why not go with them?”
“Well,” Myron moved in closer, “I heard that there was something disreputable about the family that the rabbi finally found out about. In any case, it was decided that Jacob would not go with them.”
“Forgive me, Myron, but that seems very odd. The Jews are widely known for prizing family above all else. What could be so bad that the rabbi would interfere with that?”
“I truly can’t say. Perhaps the rabbi felt that, with his ‘real’ family, Jacob would not have a chance for a truly faithful and Jewish life. I had the impression that Jacob’s family was no longer of the faith.”
“Even so, that seems hardly a reason for separating a boy from his family. Did you ever see any of Jacob’s family?”
“I can’t say that I did. There was a time, about two years, when someone came to the rabbi’s house during the Sabbath. I had been honoured enough to attend, but I believe that another reason was because the rabbi’s wife was sizing me up as a prospect for their daughter, Rebecca. Anyway, a man came to the door and demanded to see Jacob. I remember that the rabbi was very upset by this and told the man that he would have to leave. The man did not take kindly to this and began shouting for Jacob to come out, which he finally did. Actually, the entire household came out to see the fellow. Jacob went outside with the man and talked with him on the porch for several minutes as we watched through the windows. It was quite the animated discussion. The man seemed to be berating Jacob and Jacob looked to be agreeing with the fellow. I could not hear the exact words, but I believe it had something to do with Jacob ‘acting better than he was.’”
“What did the fellow look like?” Arthur asked.
“That,” Myron said, “was the reason I remembered it. The man was dressed deplorably. His clothes were marked with grease and various other stains. He had several places that actually looked wet. Not from water but some sort of slime. I have seen poverty, gentlemen, but this man was beyond that as surely as the Queen herself is. And then there was the smell! The man smelled worse than anything any of us had ever been exposed to before. I don’t think even the sewers smell this bad.”
“Indeed?” Arthur said, “Would you say that he smelled just like a sewer?”
“Yes, yes, I would. I pray that I am never exposed to such a smell again.”
“And you think that this man was related to Jacob?”
“I had no evidence of it, but there was a certain family resemblance. Also, there was the strong reaction by the rabbi, and I felt that it was not the first time they had met.”
“Would you recognise this person if you saw him again?”
“I imagine I would, certainly if he smelled the same.”
“And you never saw the man again?”
“No, never. I can testify that he is not a member of our temple or our community.”
“Thank you, Myron. You’ve been very helpful. I hope that we have not kept you from your duties too long. Will the rabbi be upset to find you gone?”
Myron suddenly gasped and checked his watch.
“Oh, my, I didn’t realise how late it was! I really must be going. I hope you find Jacob’s family and, if you do, please extend my sympathies. We weren’t the closest of friends, but one hates to hear of anyone dying.”
“Indeed we will. Shalom, Myron.” We each shook his hand.
“Shalom, gentlemen, God go with you.” He quickly ran down the street and disappeared.
“Well,” I said with a sigh, “that was pretty much useless.”
“On the contrary,” Arthur said, “we have learned a great deal.”
When he saw my confused look, Arthur laughed. I seemed to be providing a great deal of entertainment for my friend.
“Oh, come now, Albert. Surely you didn’t think it would be so easy as asking a single question and having someone say, ‘Oh, yes, Jacob’s family lives at 123 London Street, right over there.’”
“It would have been nice.”
“Sadly, things are never that easy. But take heart, we’ve learned quite a bit from young Mr. Kurtzberg. In fact, even though we do not have a name, I have a very good idea where we need to look for Cohen’s relatives.”
“What do you mean, ‘we do not have a name’? I told you that Cohen said that he left the books with the Tishers. Why aren’t we looking for them?”
“Because he didn’t say ‘Tishers,’ Albert. What he actually said was ‘Toshers,’ and that is something completely different.”
“Well, let’s go see these Toshers then: surely someone knows where someone by that name lives.”
“No, you don’t understand, Albert. ‘Toshers’ is not a surname but an occupation. In short, they are people who dig through sewers and garbage for food or anything they can sell. They are, quite frankly, one of the most despised of all people in London, even more than Jews.”
“People do such things?”
“I’m afraid so. Sometimes even entire families do it. It is a most disgusting concept, I know, but for some people it is their whole way of life.”
“Where do we find them?”
“Where they do the most of their work . . . where the sewers of London empty into the Thames. We shall need very strong boots!”
Chapter 25
I journeyed to London, to the timekept City,
Where the River flows, with foreign flotations.
There I was told; we have too many churches,
And too few chop-houses.
—T. S. Eliot
But to my surprise, our next stop was not the river Thames (which I had once sought for quite another different purpose—that of ending my own life) but somewhere completely different.
“Where are we going, Arthur? A bootblack?”
“No, not yet. I must beg a boon of you, Albert. In truth, I already had planned to make a different stop this afternoon before you came by the house. We’re not too far from it now, so I hope you don’t mind if we take a little detour.”
Actually, I did mind. Quite a bit. I was eager to be moving along with the whole thing, getting to the Toshers and
finding some more answers. Wendell, I was sure, was anxious for me to be about his business as well. Still, Arthur had already done so much that I could hardly refuse. Without his help, I would never have thought to check a Jewish temple or been able to wheedle the information out of Kurtzberg. It was poor sport of me, I know, but I silently hoped that this ‘errand’ of Arthur’s was both necessary and quick.
“Not at all, Arthur. Your detours are always most interesting.”
“Excellent! It’s only a few streets away, so it shouldn’t take much time at all.”
As we walked, I finally had a chance to ask a question that had been silently bothering me all afternoon. “Arthur, are you Jewish?”
Arthur looked at me. “What an odd question to ask. What made you think of such a thing?”
“Well, you seemed very familiar with Jewish religion and customs, not to mention the food! Moreover, there was more than a little of the sermon about your discussion about their plight.”
“I see. I had no idea I came across in that manner. Anyway, no, Albert, I am not Jewish. I was raised in the Church of England, much like yourself and my father was actually a local vicar in Llandewi Fach, although I am far from a practising Anglican. I suppose I am very sympathetic to the Jewish plight as I have seen first-hand the results of anti-Semitism. One does not spend much time in the East End without becoming acquainted with at least some Jewish customs. As for the food”—he patted his belly warmly—“I make it a point to sample as much different food as possible, much to the dismay of my dear wife!” He laughed, and we continued on our way.
“Remember always, Albert, to keep your mind, and eyes, open to new and different things. In a way, everything is connected to everything else. Learning about one thing often gives us knowledge about something quite different.”
We passed along several small roads and found ourselves in front of another nondescript building. It looked as if it might have been a meeting house at some point, but my first guess was that it was some kind of private social club. There was a small brass plate on the door which read “Isis-Urania Temple.”