Israel (8 page)

A fortnight later Abe had managed to put four hundred miles between himself and Petrograd. A wily shopkeeper in Minsk, knowing quite well what Abe was up to, paid him a mere fraction of what the gold hilt was worth.

To Abe, who'd received just enough to finance his border crossing and transport himself across the Atlantic to Ellis Island via a rusty Bremen steamship, the deal couldn't have been better.

All around Abe the machines hissed and puffed to life like dragons stirring from sleep. The lunch period was drawing to a close. Abe realized he'd been staring unseeing at his newspaper for twenty minutes.

Well, he could read about Palestine some other time. It was best that he get back to his pressing machine if he wanted to make any progress in his own new beginnings.

He stood up, stretched and tucked the folded copy of the
Forward
into his pocket. He took a sip of water from his can and lifted his sticky undershirt away from his moist skin. It was as hot as a jungle in the loft; mildew spread with abandon, and cockroaches the size and hue of cigar stubs ran all year round with an agility elsewhere demonstrated only in late July and August.

Abe was just returning to his machine when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to face Stefano de Fazio.

“We gotta talk,” the stocky Italian said. “I need your help with something.”

“So? What's wrong?” Abe joked. “You ate too much for lunch, maybe? You should have shared with me,
like usual.” His mood had brightened since the awful confrontation with Sadie and Joseph early that morning. Perhaps it had to do with thinking about Haim; perhaps it was because he had done a lot of work before lunch.

Abe also felt better when he skipped the midday meal. Hunger sharpened his senses, made the world around him shimmer with vivid intensity. Fasting was self-denial, and there was in Abe's personality a curious streak that could turn deprivation into a form of spiritual and even physical pleasure.

“Well?” he demanded. “You going to talk or are you waiting for the foreman to come over and give us both a kick in the ass for wasting time?”

Again Abe was joking, but Stefano spun around almost fearfully. Now his normally happy-go-lucky expression was dark and brooding. “It'd be better for us to talk outside, in the hall,” he muttered, eyeing the foreman, who was on the other side of the loft. “It's a private matter, a union matter. We go, okay?”

Union, shmunion, Abe thought. “Yeah.” He nodded. “We'll go outside.” He followed Stefano to the doors. The foreman glared at them but didn't say anything.

It was a grey, blustery sort of late spring day, bitter cold in the drafty hallway outside the loft. Abe felt the sweat stiffen on him. Goosebumps rose on his pale, thin arms as he began to shiver in his sleeveless undershirt.

The hallway had a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were tan where the paint hadn't peeled away. Stefano began to hoist himself up on the wrought-iron railing that overlooked the staircase, but then he hesitated. He prodded the rickety thing and thought better of trusting his bulk to it.

“I was at a union meeting last night,” Stefano abruptly began, still experimentally shaking the railing, keeping his eyes glued to where it was fastened to the concrete floor.
“It was over on Eldridge, not so far from where you live.”

“Stefano, I'm freezing out here,” Abe complained.

“Okay, okay,” Stefano said. “They read us a message from the joint board signed by the union president, Rosenberg. There's going to be a strike, Abe.” Stefano finally turned his attention away from the bannister to stare into Abe's eyes. “This is a secret I'm telling you, okay?” He nodded vigorously, causing the harsh light to glint off of his black curly hair, wet with grooming oil.

“For such big news you dragged me out here to catch pneumonia? Stefano, there's been strikes before—”

“Bullshit strikes. Walkouts, wildcats, a spit in the bucket—”

“Drop, a
drop
in the bucket.” Abe prided himself on his ability to talk like a real American.

Stefano shrugged impatiently. “This is going to be a big strike—all the locals, everyone! You understand? We're going to shut the industry down, okay? The locals, they get to vote on it, but believe me, it's gonna happen. This summer a big strike.”

“It'll never happen.” At least Abe hoped it wouldn't. “Every day new people are getting off the boats from my country, from yours, from who-knows-where. If the union strikes, the bosses will hire greenhorns.” He brushed his hands against one another as if clapping dust from his fingers. “That's all for your union.”

“The bosses will not hire greenhorns because we will immediately sign them into the union. And we will meet twice a day to make sure nobody scabs.”

“Wonderful,” Abe said dourly. “And what will this big strike accomplish, I'd like to know.”

“Abe,” Stefano scolded good-naturedly. “You gotta be cheerful, like me. What are we gonna get? First, we demand a forty-nine hour week and a day of rest, the choice of Saturday or Sunday, with no fear of being
fired.” He began to tick off points on his fingers. “We gonna demand a closed shop. The joint board say this is very crucial,” he told Abe seriously. “We gonna get twenty-two dollars a week—”

“What?” Abe gasped. “My best week, working a double shift, I only made fifteen.”

“Sure, twenty-two for pressers like us.” Stefano's smile was beatific. “Others not so good make less, but everybody makes what's fair for them.”

“My best wishes for us, my good friend,” Abe sighed, “but if you ask me what I think our chances are—” He frowned and shook his head. “The police will not be on our side, Stefano. And what will we all do when we're hungry, when our rents are due?”

“The strike fund—” Stefano began.

“Faugh!” Abe cut him off with a disgusted wave. “The two dollars you took from everybody won't go so far, believe me.”

Stefano looked uneasy. “Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about,” he murmured, “why I asked you to come out so we could talk in private.”

“Yes?”

“Abe, my friend, you told me you have saved some money to start a business of your own someday—”

“No,” Abe snorted. “You want my savings? I should give you my money?”

“Not give, lend,” Stefano put in. “A loan, my friend, to the union strike fund. To be paid back”—he smiled fiercely—“with interest.”

“So much you know about Jews,” Abe morosely grumbled. “You say ‘interest' and I'm supposed to lick my lips?”

“Don't say such things,” Stefano implored. “We are union brothers, honorable men.”

Abe, coloring, looked away. “I'm not even going to be in the union much longer.”

“You're in it now,” Stefano pointed out.

“It took me two years to save that money.”

“And it'll be another two years before you have enough,” the Italian said. “You told me so yourself. Abe, believe me please, if you were ready to leave the sweatshop I would not ask this favor of you, but you are not ready. For two more years you must be a presser, which means you will remain in the union.”

“I have only two hundred dollars.” Abe heard the whine in his voice but ignored it. “How far can it go?”

“It could mean the difference between winning and losing for the men in our local. It could mean that their children—my children—don't go hungry.” Stefano gripped his shoulder. “What's the danger? You can't do anything with the money until you double it anyway, right? It's a loan, Abe. You'll be paid back.”

“The danger is that if the union fails, if this strike doesn't work, nobody will pay me back. What would I do then, Stefano?”

The Italian shrugged. “It's a chance,” he admitted. “For me the decision would be easy, but we are different men from different worlds.” He sighed. “Come, we go back to work. You think about it and decide. Let me know. I will not ask again. At the end of the day let me know.”

Abe spent the rest of the afternoon in agonizing deliberation. He worked his pressing machine at his usual pace. He filled his racks, stacked his piles and tabulated his totals as the boys came to carry the garments away, but all he really saw was Stefano's anxious face; all he heard were the Italian's words, “We are union brothers, my friend.”

I won't do it, Abe vowed. Why should I? The memories flooded over him like emotions—the way he gave the lion's share of his savings to Haim, denying himself.
The way he gave what was left to the military recruiter to save that foolish young scholar's life.

I've already done my part for others, and too many times. He glanced over at Stefano, who was working hard at his own machine. There was a serpent hiss as the irons came together and then the puff of steam rose between them like a wall.

Look at him, Abe thought bitterly, him with his greasy hair and his suspenders and his dark skin. He is like something out of the funny pages of the newspapers. He calls himself my friend, that wop! He doesn't even know I'm about to lose my room. I have nowhere to live, but I should give him money? I wouldn't even tell him, for what if he invited me to his tenement? How could I live among Italians?

Abe started. His momentary hatred of Stefano was so intense that for a moment he wasn't quite sure if he'd merely thought those things or actually said them.

The intensity of his feelings had a sobering effect on him. I'm only angry with Stefano because he asked me for the money, Abe realized, but the decision is mine. Tonight before I leave work, I'll tell him that my answer is no and that will be that.

For a moment his decision brought relief, but then shame and remorse began. Did I come to America to act like a mean-spirited Russian peasant? Abe demanded of himself. Haim would give the money and be proud that he was asked.

Great sadness, majestic in its intensity, came over Abe, mixed with aching pride such as the weary shepherd feels when he has guided his flock home safely. It was not such a terrible fate, Abe supposed, to find it one's duty to carry the world on one's shoulders. He began to stand a little straighter before his pressing machine.

Haim had the physical strength to go to Palestine and conquer Turks and Arabs. Abe knew he could never be a
fighter. The thought of an angry Arab, or even an angry New York City policeman, made him quake with fear.

But there was a way for Abe to be a hero. Someday he would be wealthy, but for the rich man to give away money was an obligation. No, the act of giving money could be considered heroic only when performed by a poor man.

Twice already Abe had saved a life—and that poor injured scholar. Abe had rescued these men not with physical prowess but with his hard-earned savings. Just like the rich German Jews, Abe had been singled out by God to help his fellow men through charity. Maybe, Abe thought with growing excitement, maybe God is preparing me for the day when I am fabulously wealthy. Maybe he is testing me now to see if I'm worthy of having money.

As important as God's opinion of him was, there was also Haim's judgment to consider. One day, Abe hoped, they would have a reunion. Haim would be able to brag about making his mark in Palestine, and Abe wanted to be able to point to some aspect of America—perhaps the labor movement—and say, “You see, little friend, look at what Abe Herodetzky has accomplished. These fellows in the factory owe their well-being to me.”

He thought back to what Stefano had said to him. It was true that he needed to save at least another two hundred dollars to begin a storefront business. It had taken him two years to save what he had. How long before he would have the four hundred?

Meanwhile, the union could use the money. If the strike succeeded, Abe could save that much quicker. And if the union was willing to pay him back with interest, what was the big deal?

That they won't pay me back, Abe reminded himself. I am only halfway to my goal. That I can endure, but if I am forced to begin all over again—

It was a gamble, admittedly, but a gamble had to be
made if a man wished to be able to boast about winning. Of course, first he had to win.

I hesitate because I am a coward, Abe thought despondently. Unlike Haim, I cannot think of others, but only of myself. Haim is a good-spirited man; I am weak and petty. It is right that God constantly test me.

Finally Abe had to laugh. Being good was like being a musician or knowing how to speak English. How much more pleasure there would be in goodness if a man didn't have to go through the misery of practicing the art.

The next morning, Sabbath morning, Abe appeared at the loft for the day's work. Stefano de Fazio was waiting for him outside. Abe handed him the two hundred dollars, and Stefano, embracing him, handed over a slip of paper upon which he had noted the amount, the date and the union's obligation to repay the debt together with a nominal amount of interest. The paper was otherwise blank. The only signature on it was that of Stefano de Fazio. Abe briefly wondered if somebody more official from the union should have signed, but he was reluctant to insult Stefano by asking such a thing. Abe reverently folded the slip and stowed it in his pocket. Later it would go into the now-empty envelope as a reminder of future promise.

Last night, when Abe informed Stefano of his decision, the exuberant Italian had lifted the squawking Abe off his feet in a show of jubilation. He kissed Abe on both cheeks like a proud papa on the day his son becomes a man. Stefano's absolute certainty that Abe was doing the right thing carried the worried lender through the rest of the night and right through the morning—up until the moment when he actually handed over the cash. Then Abe's despair rose like a fever.

Three times now, Abe cajoled God, three times I have put others before myself. It has fallen upon me to
help others. So be it. But after this maybe I could get what I want for a change?