the Union. A little later the dethroned official appeared. They did not
even greet one another. Kirshen, the organizer, was the third man to
come.
"Brother Grumberg," he said to the former secretary, "would you please
give over the books to brother Kessler and show him what he has to do?"
Grumberg took out from a drawer the two books of the Union and was ready
to explain the work.
"But by God! In God's name! What do you want me to do with these
books?" Kessler cried.
"Record the meetings, brother Kessler, write down what takes place,"
Grumberg said.
"What?" the new Secretary called out horror-stricken. "I--write? How
should I write? I don't write--I don't know how to write--never did.
What do you want with my life--what?"
"For God's sake, Kessler! If you cannot read and write why did you
accept the nomination for the secretaryship?" the organizer asked
angrily. But Kessler was defiant.
"Well, how and from where did you want me to know that a secretary must
know to read and write?"
Kessler's resignation and the election of a new secretary brought the
organization on the brink of ruin. And if it would not have been for the
superior generalship of organizer Kirshen the Pretzel-Painters' Union
would have been crushed under the heel of capitalism.
THE GYPSY BLOOD THAT TELLS
One does not expect to meet anything out of the ordinary at West Farms
to break the monotony where the big city fringes out. The old wooden
shacks lean on the brick tenements, and one does not know whether the
city invades the peaceful country or the country tries to catch up with
the city. The outskirts of New York always brings to me the memory of a
certain gentleman in silk hat and dress suit, but with the ends of his
trousers in fringes and his shoes down at the heel. But--as a wise man
once said--if one stands in one place long enough he sees the whole
world pass before him as in a kaleidoscope. Thus also my frequent visits
to West Farms were repaid when I saw one morning a gypsy tribe camped
there.
Six wagons back of the road, a dozen horses neighing as they rubbed
their noses on the shafts; a few tents with the flaps undulating
windward; a few patches of color on the dress of the women. What a
change it made in the dreary place, how stolid old West Farms was
transformed when the curling smoke rose from the stovepipes of the camp
wagons!
I expected to hear the usual noise attending camping; song and laughter,
as only gypsies can sing and laugh.
It was a Roumanian gypsy tribe; one of many that have come over to this
country in the last decade. But the people went about in the quietest
possible way, which I knew was not at all their custom.
"Have they taken on manners?" I wondered.
Children of the neighborhood, and even grown-ups, began to assemble
around the wagons. They stood at a distance. A mother warned her
over-curious little boy:
"Don't go too near, dearie! Gypsies steal children."
As the woman spoke two little boys of the tribe climbed out from one of
the camp wagons.
"Look at these white children!" exclaimed several people.
"Surely, stolen children."
The features of the children were distinctly of a Roumanian cast. A
young gypsy woman followed the little ones to a tent.
* * * * *
From inside the wagon broke out a loud cry that was drowned in the wails
and groanings of the people in every wagon and tent. The curious throng
assembled about the camp now widened the circle. The gypsy litany of the
dead was officiated.
In funeral rhythm the dead one's virtues were enumerated one by one,
while others made incantations to chase the evil spirit.
"Leave us! If thou hast come through the chimney, leave through the
chimney; and if through the door, evil one, leave the same way!"
"That thou be fed burning stones from now until eternity. That thy
thirst be quenched only with the blood of thy own kin."
The same incantations were repeated for more than a half hour. They
ceased abruptly, at the sound of a gong. The evil one had departed.
Slowly, in single file, the gypsies descended the steps of the wagon and
bowed very low westward, to the setting sun of an early autumn day,
before going each one to his own tent.
* * * * *
The circle of the curious neighbors had widened very much when I
approached an old gypsy and asked him who had died. He turned full face
as he said:
"Our Chief, Yorga, our Chief. We would want to bury him under a tree
near a river--but can we do as we please in this country? Tell me,
stranger."
Like the drippings from a burning candle the tears fell from the man's
eyes as he spoke to me.
On the wooden cross over Yorga's grave I have carved with my pen-knife
the name of the dead one. In the fall of every year his tribe comes to
the burial grounds, and each one cuts out a piece of cloth from his best
garment and leaves it there as an offering to the dead Chief.
And the old gypsy told me: "A great man was Yorga. A king among men. His
mother was killed by her father when Yorga was born, because she was the
daughter of a great Roumanian boyar, and the child, fruit of a secret
love, was the son of a gypsy. But the child was allowed to live, so
beautiful was he.
"When Yorga was six years old, his grandfather, the old boyar, who had
no other children, took the boy from the servant quarters into the house
and called a special teacher to show him the letters. Later on Yorga was
sent to school, and grew to be a learned man. All this time he did not
know who his father was, and did not know that the hand he kissed
good-night was the one that had murdered his mother.
"But there was a restless spirit in the boy; a spirit that made him roam
from city to city whenever he had an opportunity. And thus he wandered
all over the world. In search of learning, it was thought. Because no
one realized the yearning of the gypsy in this stately youth.
"When Yorga was twenty-five his grandfather married him to another
boyar's daughter. The following year the old man died, leaving his land
and fortune to his grandson.
"Yorga was not happy in his marriage, not because the 'Conitza' was not
a beautiful and good wife, not because she did not love him. Neither did
his great fortune bring him happiness. It only tied him down to one
place. Yorga began to go to the city once a month, and usually came home
drunk. Then once every week. Later on he was seldom seen at home.
"The usurers first took away part of his land, then some of his oxen.
His wife cried. One and then another child was born to them. Yorga made
resolutions to better himself--cried and beat his heart and asked for
forgiveness. A few days, a few weeks, or a few months of strenuous work,
and then again back to the riotous life, to dissipation--and again home
a repentant sinner. The land he owned shrunk daily. And the cattle he
owned were either taken away or died in neglect--because 'the eye of the
master fattens the cows.' And Yorga was careless. He had no ambition in
life. He wanted nothing, he desired nothing. Even his carouses no longer
had any distraction for him.
"Then one day our tribe camped near his grounds. At once he left wife,
children, land and home, and came to live with us. For twenty years he
guided our ways. There was no day that he thought not and labored not
for us. He no longer thought of carouses and drinks. He bade us dress
cleanly and live healthful lives, and we were respected wherever we
came. It was he who guided us here over strange lands and great seas,
and his wisdom is still guiding us."
"But," asked I, "what about the white children I saw in your tents?"
"They are of Yorga and his gypsy wife--and with them we have great
trouble, for our ways are not their ways. Their souls are like the soul
of Yorga's mother, the boyar's daughter. Some day they will run away and
settle in some village--stolid, stale peasants."
"And what about Yorga's first children?" I asked again.
"They roam the world; are celebrated musicians. And the sun never finds
them where the moon put them to sleep. They have the father's blood,"
the old man answered as he took with his bare fingers a piece of burning
charcoal to light his freshly stuffed pipe.
"What's born of a cat runs after mice."
WHEN STARK'S CAFÉ WAS CLOSED
"Impossible, impossible, impossible," said everybody when the news
passed around that Stark's Café was closed and that the house was being
demolished.
Stark's Café on Houston Street was a celebrated landmark of New York. It
was there that the playwrights, from the most pretentious to the
humblest, closed contracts with managers. A special table at the upper
end of the place was reserved for this purpose, and when a manager was
sitting at that table with a playwright it meant business. "Charlie" the
lawyer, would then loom up from somewhere and draw up the "funeral
papers." Stark's Café! Why, Jewish actors in Alexandria, Egypt, made
appointments with their London acquaintances to "meet at Stark's." It
was not necessary to add "in New York."
Stark's was the stage mart of the world. The first tables near the door,
just ordinary wooden tables, were apportioned for the ushers, ticket
speculators and supers. Next to these tables were a few better ones,
marble topped, at which were seated the provincial actors on visit in
the metropolis. After those, there were a few which belonged to
musicians and the writers of vaudeville jingles. But the round centre
tables and those near the windows toward Houston Street were reserved
for stars of both sexes, managers and successful playwrights. Stark's
head waiter put it very clearly: "These tables are reserved for
gentlemen who at least occasionally put on a silk hat."
And now, this place, this rendezvous of the two hemispheres was closed
and being torn down.
* * * * *
Old Samuels, one of the oldest Jewish actors, complained bitterly about
it.
"You understand," he said, "it's now twenty years that I never missed a
day from Stark's. In the morning, after breakfast, I'd shave, dress and
go to Stark's. Maybe, who knows! and after lunch I'd return there. To
save carfare we moved not far from the place. After supper I was again
there, and after the show--maybe--maybe."
Samuels's nickname was "Samuel Maybe," because it's now more than twenty
years since he came from London, where he was a success, to play here,
and it's still "Maybe." But he has never been faithless to his art. Oh,
no! This was chiefly due to the fact that his wife and daughter were
excellent dressmakers.
"You see for yourself what a calamity the tearing down of Stark's place
is," old Samuels continued, as he wiped a tear from his eye. "All my
hopes are blasted. There can be no 'maybe' any longer--I am doomed. What
will I do every morning, every afternoon, every evening? Where will they
come to look for me when they will need me?"
I must tell here that this conversation took place in a new café on 10th
Street; whereupon some kind-hearted companion suggested to the
weather-beaten veteran of the Jewish stage that he should make this
place his steady abode. But the old man straightened his bent back, his
eyes flashed fire and his thin hands shot out from his white cuffs in a
dramatic sweep. "Here, in this place? I, Samuels, the man who created
'Kean' Shylock? No, never! Even if I starve to death. In a place without
atmosphere, without traditions--never! never!"
One minute later he looked up at the clock on the wall and began to make
hasty excuses: His wife was waiting for him with supper.
Samuels's past contained one of the greatest dramas. It ruined his life.
It wiped the floor with him, so to say. Here is what had happened to him
twenty-odd years ago:
There were only two Jewish theatres worthy of the name in the whole
world. One was in London, and the other on the Bowery, New York--the
old Thalia Theatre. The theatre in the Bowery had the greater reputation
because of the genius of the lamented playwright, Jacob Gordin,
presiding there, and the host of actors he had developed. It was the
ambition of every London actor to play in New York. One of Samuels's
confreres had already achieved fame on the Bowery when Samuels, who like
all actors knew in his heart of hearts that he was better than any other
living actor, decided to try his luck over here. In London he was
already famous in certain classic rôles.
Ten days after his decision was taken, he and his grip landed at Stark's
Café.
"From London? How is London? What's the new play there?"
Samuels had his best clothes on, and was admitted to the centre tables.
It brought him in contact with stars and managers. His confrere, who had
preceded him here, sat enviously at one of the minor tables. He only had
a small part in a play, for which he received pay in "pasteboards"
(tickets), which he himself peddled or sold to the brood of
speculators. In those days Jewish actors did not own ten-thousand-dollar
automobiles. Samuels's initial success, the ready admittance to the
centre tables, made his former friend, Kashin, green with envy.
* * * * *
It so happened that Gordin, the dramatic manager, saw Samuels, liked his
face, and engaged him immediately for a new play they were then
rehearsing.
That same evening a cable was flashed to London to the actor's wife:
"Pack up and come with baby." It brought Esther here two weeks
later--just in time for the opening night of the new show.
Samuels's rôle was the one next to the star. Kashin had but a very minor
rôle--as a body servant to Samuels, who was stalking about in flowing
Oriental robes back stage from one end to the other.
Samuels waited in the wings for his cue. He had to come in with majestic
steps and utter his decision to leave his faithless spouse to her
lover. Oh how he chafed, waiting for his cue! It was to take the house
by storm. He was to outshine even the star.
And--the cue was given, Kashin near him--everything in order. But just
as he opened the door, Kashin gently but firmly stepped on poor
Samuels's corn--on the little toe.
The pain was so terrible that the actor stumbled and limped on the stage
with one foot in his hands. Mechanically he said his lines. Instead of
using a stentorian voice with face to the gallery, he drawled them out
in a plaintive tone, like a whimpering dog, looking at the stage door,
with his back to the audience.
It was so funny that the audience roared with laughter and could not be
brought to its senses. The heroine cried and pleaded, but it did not
help. The gallery continued to laugh. When the curtain went down Kashin
had disappeared from the theatre. The actors almost mobbed poor Samuels.
The playwright, Gordin, could have killed him. "Even if they should
have cut your head off you should still have been acting your rôle
properly," he said. As soon as the poor actor appeared again in the next
act, the people shook with laughter. It could not be suppressed.
When the manager came out before the curtain and explained to the people
what had happened, it became even worse. It was impossible to go on. It
killed the show--a good play which was revived ten years later with
great success--and it killed Samuels.
* * * * *
Esther, a practical wife, opened a dressmaking shop. Samuels spent the
next year or so explaining what had happened.
The first few weeks after the occurrence Samuels receded from the centre
tables at Stark's to the side tables, and actors in good humor coaxed
him into telling his story over and over again. It became a tradition to
coax Samuels--and Samuels was easily coaxed into telling the story.
But he could get no place on the stage. From a character player he
became a character. It became a habit with every manager to promise him
a part in the next play. Some pretended it brought good luck to do so.
When a play went to smash it was, they said, "Because Samuels did not
believe you."
Thus the Jewish stage grew under his eyes with the doors closed to him,
because some one had stepped on his corn. He became "Maybe"--"maybe" in
the next play.
"Don't refuse Samuels," the manager would whisper to the playwright when
the contract was drawn at the big table. "Don't refuse him; it brings
bad luck."
Samuels would certainly have his eye on the proceedings, and come up to
shake hands and bid good luck.
"And will I have a part?"
"I hope so, Samuels."
"Esther, I have a part in Ash's new play."
Esther had heard that same phrase twenty years thrice a day. Like all
actors Samuels had but a poor vocabulary of his own. Relying on other
men to supply them the tools of expression, actors are poor word
finders.
Then, the night of the first performance, Samuels would warm up near
some one, and as the "rôle" appeared he would sadly say, "My rôle, look
what he is making with my rôle."
Twenty years of daily hopes and daily disappointments. A whole world
grew up before him. He knew nothing of it at all. Stark's Café was New
York, America. The whole world was comprised between his home and this
place. His hair turned gray, the corners of his mouth drooped, his eyes
dimmed, his shoulders stooped. His wife grew old, his daughter bloomed
into youth and withered from overwork. There came the Boer War, several
earthquakes, the Balkan War, and now this Great War. All this left
Samuels cold and indifferent. All those years he was waiting at Stark's
Café for an engagement.
"Maybe to-day."
And this haven of hope has disappeared.
BECAUSE OF BOOKKEEPING
"Nominations for treasurer are now in order. Nominations!"
"Moishe Goldberg"--"Moishe Goldberg"--"Moishe Goldberg," called out
every one present at the yearly election of the Roumanian Sick Benefit
Society.
"Any other nominations?" the Secretary asked.
"No, no, go ahead; it's Moishe Goldberg again, Mr. Secretary."
"He's good enough, good enough, Mr. Secretary."
And so Moishe Goldberg was elected Treasurer of the Society by
acclamation. It was a yearly performance--since the last twenty years.
And this was not the only society for which Moishe Goldberg was
Treasurer--there were a dozen. Every Jewish-Roumanian Society of New
York wanted to have him act as Treasurer. Once he promised to accept the
nomination, no other man would care to run against him, and the yearly
election was merely a formality turned into flattery as far as he was
concerned. His probity and financial responsibility were above par. His
charity was proverbial.
* * * * *
At thirty he came from Roumania with his wife and two little girls. With
the few dollars he had brought with him he opened a little grocery store
on Clinton Street which prospered and developed into a bigger store on
Rivington Street. Of a religious, old-fashioned turn of mind, he
followed old Jewish traditions. His store closed Friday night, it
remained so over Saturday; he also kept closed every Jewish holiday. He
let his beard grow, and went regularly to the synagogue near Forsythe
Street.
When he heard that some one chided him about his religious
punctiliousness, he said: "I came here because I wanted religious
freedom--what I have I want to use."
"Moishe Goldberg, money is needed for a new scroll."
"Put me down for a third of what it costs to get one."
When a woman bought less food than usual, Goldberg would ask, "What's
the matter?"
"Husband is out of work."
"Well, do you want to starve him he should have no strength to look for
work? Foolish woman! Take what you need; when he will work you will pay
me up." And he would accept no thanks, Moishe Goldberg.
* * * * *
In spite of all he gave, his business grew. In a few years he had four
stores, branched out in some leather finding business, and sold
wholesale to smaller groceries in East New York and Brownsville.
His promptitude made the wholesalers vie with each other as to who
should sell him most. His good nature attracted customers from
everywhere. He signed no notes and demanded none. Every one trusted him
and he trusted everybody. He had a little note book in which he wrote
down what was necessary. For the rest he had an excellent memory.
Thus the business went on for years, and as the Jewish-Roumanian
population grew on the east side his fame spread. By accident he became
the owner of a few tenement houses. Rents were never due. People
generally paid, and when they did not, because a husband was on strike
or a child sick, it was soon forgotten.
Each evening he would take together all the moneys and checks of the day
and put them in a leather handbag. The next morning the whole was
deposited in the bank.
If a bill was due the same or the next day and there was not enough
money in the bank, all he had to do was to 'phone up to one of his
hundred wealthy friends and ask a check of two or three thousand dollars
for a few days. On occasion it was reciprocated.
His home life was an ideal one. He lived in the district. His wife was
as good and old-fashioned as her husband, and though the girls went
through high school, all they had modernized themselves was to use a
little cold cream, against which the father protested.
At twenty the older girl married a well-to-do furrier, to whom Moishe
Goldberg gave a check of ten thousand dollars, after having promised
only five, as dowry.
The whole affair was carried along old-fashioned lines, through a
marriage broker. The wedding was an event. Members from twenty societies
brought wedding gifts worth into the thousands.
But right at the wedding, Sofia, the younger daughter, fell in love with
a cousin of her sister's husband, a young bookkeeper.
There was nothing against the young man. He came from a good family, was
well educated in Hebrew. Of course he shaved. But Moishe Goldberg was
tolerant enough to understand. To his wife's objections he answered,
"It's better a Jew without a beard than a beard without a Jew."
There was only one serious objection. The young man was making very
little money--twenty a week. But Sofia loved him. She was the only one
now.
"And after all," Moishe Goldberg said to his wife, "maybe it's better
so. I will take him into the business. Why should my son-in-law work
elsewhere? Sofia will continue to live with us. There is plenty room in
the house."
And Sofia agreed, and the young man agreed. The wedding of the first
daughter took place in the spring, and that of the second daughter late
in the fall.
In three different synagogues dinners for the poor were served at Moishe
Goldberg's expense for a full week.
And because he gave no dowry, he sent checks to every charitable
institution. He agreed to forget the monthly rent due from a dozen
tenants. Many an old account was torn out. All the people working for
him got a raise in their wages.
* * * * *
After the wedding the young couple went on a honeymoon to Chicago, where
the first daughter now lived.
When they returned Moishe Goldberg took his son-in-law down to the store
and showed him the new sign, "Goldberg & Waldman, Wholesale and Retail
Grocers."
There was not much to be said. The two men kissed each other in sight of
all the people on the street. The young man entered the store.
"This is your new boss," Goldberg said to his employees. "I will begin
to sleep a little longer every morning from now on."
Waldman greeted the men, shook hands with some. His father-in-law showed
him the back of the store, packed with boxes and barrels and bags. He
brought him down the cellar where the herring barrels were deposited.
"Ephraim, my son, I will tell Sofia to make you an apron. I will make a
regular grocer out of you."
The next day the young man saw merchandise come and go, checks come and
checks go, with no order, no billing, Moishe Goldberg only noting down
in his book an item here and there.
"And where are your books, father?"
"What books; who needs books, who?"
"Why, father, how can you carry on such a business without books?"
"You are as silly as all the other young chaps. I am twenty years in
business and never saw the need of books. What I am afraid I won't
remember I note down here--that's good enough for me. Have a look at my
check book and see."
Ephraim Waldman went home a worried man that evening. It was Friday
night, and the best fish ever cooked, for which Mrs. Goldberg was so
famous, was not good enough to relieve his mind. Even Sofia's kisses
were thrown away.
"What's the matter with Ephraim?" the mother asked.
"He wants books." Moishe Goldberg laughed aloud as he patted his
daughter. "You can see he is a bookkeeper; without books he can't even
eat fish."
* * * * *
Waldman wanted to expostulate, but his father-in-law cut him short.