storage houses and for rainy days. Otherwise the owner of the store
displays his merchandise on the width of the sidewalk, just leaving a
goatpath for the customers, as they do in Calcutta, in Constantinople,
or in Nijni Novigorod since all times. But the market of edibles ends on
the corner of Rivington Street. From there to Canal Street, Orchard
pushcarts carry merchandise of a different character. On one pushcart
are four hundred dollar fur coats, water-bottles and furniture polish,
and on the next one is a medley of all kinds of ten-cent jewelry sold
for "only a penny a piece." And you never can tell what may be on the
next pushcart. One day, silk shirts and the next day rubber boots or
marble statues. At some other time "genuine" cut glass and a day later
Syrian rugs, old coats, pants, socks, watches, soap, a phonograph, or,
for a diversion, a player-piano is brought on the sidewalk and tried in
the open. It is the good old Bazaar so dear to Eastern people the world
over; the Bazaar which gives an opportunity to outwit, outbargain, and
outcheat one another. The vender always swears by the heads of his wife
and children that the merchandise costs him more than he asks for, and
there is play and sport to let the customer go away and watch and
recognize in his gait and the way he holds his head whether he expects
to be called back. It is sport to watch him stop and turn his head to
offer a few cents more. Then, the merchant makes believe he does not
hear him. Sure that he had reached the bottom, the customer returns to
the pushcart, fingers over the thing he wants to buy, pays, and is
happy. One cannot purchase such happiness in a one-price store.
On Orchard Street lived Solomon Berman and his wife. They had no
children. He was a Hebrew teacher. This does not mean that he knew
Hebrew more than to read the prayers. But he knew enough to teach the
children of the neighborhood the holy characters; enough to enable them
to enter the common of men at the age of thirteen and become Jews among
Jews; enough to keep them in the clan and retard the crumbling of the
great rock of Israel.
In the neighborhood, Berman had a reputation as a very conscientious
teacher and as a loving husband. It was said that he fasted two days a
week, not because he was _so_ religious, but because he wanted his wife
to have more food those two days. She was very thin and ailing!
Early every morning Berman, in his long coat and slipper shoes, went
into the street to do the marketing for the day. There was no pleasure
in it for him; he never bargained. But surely no merchant ever made a
penny profit on what Reb Berman bought--it was known how poor they were.
The poverty of a Hebrew teacher is proverbial. Still, has that not
always been so? Was it not even forbidden to take money for teaching? A
teacher was only entitled to compensation for the time he spent with the
pupil, but not for the knowledge he imparted.
Things went on nicely enough until Mrs. Berman took to her bed, meaning,
that one morning she could not leave the bed. Her husband was the only
one to attend her. They had no friends. The women of the neighborhood
are helping their men till late at night and have no time for
friendship, even on Saturday. The whole of the Sabbath is given to make
up for lost sleep.
Reb Solomon Berman called the physician of the neighborhood. The young
medicus advised the sick woman should be taken to a hospital, but Mrs.
Berman would not hear of it. "What? Separate from my husband after
thirty years' life under one roof!"
"But, dear, dear," pleaded halfheartedly Solomon Berman. "Leah, dear,
maybe, maybe----"
Mrs. Berman used woman's most convincing argument: tears, and the
hospital was no longer spoken of. The doctor returned a few days later.
The condition of the woman had become worse. The house was untidy and
there was no fire in the stove.
"Only in a hospital could she be saved," he told the distracted husband.
But the sick woman would not hear of it.
"If I have to die, I want to die in my house, Solomon."
Meanwhile the pupils had a happy time. The teacher dismissed them as
soon as they came in in the afternoons, after their school hours.
Reb Berman discovered that there were more than two fasting days in a
week for a truly religious man. The druggist charged full prices.
The visiting physician was touched by the devotion of the old couple. He
visited them twice a day and when he had a little more time he took off
his coat and helped tidy up the house, and built a fire in the kitchen
stove. He had no idea how poor they were, because as far as Mrs. Berman
was concerned she always had what he prescribed for her. The young man
did not know of the Sabbath clothes that were pawned and of the new fast
days Reb Berman had discovered. He had refused to take fee for every
time he came, but once or twice he had accepted a dollar bill Solomon
Berman pressed in his hand.
He thought Reb Berman's heightened pallor was due only to worry and the
physician exercised everything he knew, and even more, to get the sick
woman on her feet. It took a long time; it took the whole winter to get
the woman out of bed and danger. But the young physician was happy to
have saved the woman's life.
Meanwhile Reb Berman's earning capacity had fallen to zero.
At first the parents of the pupils knew nothing of the daily dismissal
by Reb Berman. When they finally noticed that the children were not
forging ahead, they decided that the teacher had become slack in his
methods. Thus the offspring of Orchard Street was sent to some other
tutor, and Orchard Street always acts as a unit.
When the news had finally gone out about the teacher's wife's sickness,
Mrs. Goldman was very sorry and Mrs. Schwartz sighed deeply, but Jewish
children had to be taught Hebrew under all circumstances. It was the
sacred duty of parents----
True, his wife was getting better, but Solomon Berman began to question
himself whether he was doing all in his power for her!
That doctor who came daily, fee or no fee, to visit the sick one, was he
really a good doctor? Was he not a little like Reb Solomon Berman
himself? was it not possible that the physician knew as much about
medicine as he, Reb Berman, knew Hebrew? just enough for the children of
the poor? If he were a good physician would he not be in great demand,
charge a big fee and have no time to come daily and help tidy up the
room and build the fire? The old man's imagination was sharpened by
hunger and worry. When his wife was finally permitted to leave the bed
he drew a deep breath.
The doctor, who had meanwhile scented the terrible poverty, dared not
offend the Rabbi by offering help. But when Mrs. Berman was
convalescing, he called the husband aside and said to him: "She is all
right now. All she needs is proper care, strengthening food. I know you
can't give it to her. Here is twenty dollars. I want you to spend the
money only for her, and may God help you." The doctor was so afraid of a
refusal he hurried out of the room ere the old man had had time to think
or speak.
About a week later the physician went to see his patient again. He found
her in a terrible condition of weakness due especially to lack of proper
nourishment.
"Man, what did you do with the money?"
"With that money, doctor, I called a bigger doctor, a Professor, a
gentile, from uptown."
THE PURE MOTIVE
Down the East Side when one says "meet me at Grienberg's," he does not
have to give street and number. To a certain class of people the place
is as well known as the Waldorf or the St. Regis is to the rest of the
population. Grienberg's food and wine needs no praise. Should one dare
doubt the quality of the victuals the proprietor points out a few old
men sitting at a corner table and remarks: "These men have eaten the
same kind of food here for the last thirty years; and they are still
alive."
But good food and good wine is not the only attraction of the place. Its
main feature is that the brains and the heart of the East Side has
formed a year-long habit to congregate there. The philosophies and the
religions of the world are dissected nightly at a dozen tables. Between
two sips of tea the literature of a century is ruled out of existence,
or some tenth-rate poet is crowned as the world's unequalled singer.
Editors of dailies discuss yesterday's editorial with their political
antagonists and give their verbal verdicts to story writers about a
manuscript read between the soup and the dessert. The very latest in the
world's politics is pressed through the finest of sieves at every table.
In such discussion the office boy of the newspaper, Joe, the waiter, and
the owner of the place have equal rights with the editors and
philosophers.
Meanwhile the musicians play Roumanian melodies, the latest vaudeville
successes, snatches from operas, or some composer tries on the piano his
latest melody while the poet, to whose words the music was set, leans on
his elbow and listens attentively. The verdict is given on the spot and
if it is liked, Katz, the music publisher, sends the manuscript to the
printer the following day.
In such an atmosphere lived for the last ten years Joseph Horn. Up to
five years ago he was the editor of a Yiddish radical weekly. His word
was feared by every one. He smashed to pieces the pretentions of many a
young writer. Many a play was taken off the boards of the East Side
theaters because Horn happened not to like it. He attacked the strongest
reputations and became strong himself by taking sides with the weak. But
suddenly something terrible happened. He became blind. Superstitious
people said it was God's punishment. His fiancée, a beautiful young
Russian girl, took care of him during the first days. For a while he
dictated to her his articles. But the fighting editorials of yore grew
milder from week to week. He began to compromise. Began to see "honest
differences of opinions," where he formerly saw only corruption and
crookedness. He no longer attacked the strong. He ridiculed the weak. So
he lost his job. The radical group owning the paper had no scruples
about Horn's future; they had principles to defend and maintain which
stood higher than the mere well-being of a lonely blind man. Horn, too,
rose to the occasion and broke off the engagement with the girl. He was
not going to keep her to share his misfortune. For a while he tried to
write, to contribute to radical papers. But having lost the fighting
quality, his articles were of no value at all.
He took a room not far from the café and came there early every day and
left when the last guest had left. A brother of his, a street car
conductor, who now supported him, usually brought him there and took him
home. The psychological change in favor of the strong was so complete
that one was almost sure which side Horn would take in a controversy. He
was always with the strong. All the fighting ability he had once
possessed became transmuted into a faculty for intrigues. Like a bee
flying from one flower to another, Horn hopped from one table to the
other, cross polinating what one man told and the other answered. He
became a nuisance and was disliked by everybody. Yet no one dared say
anything or lift his voice in anger. Since he had lost his sight his
hearing had sharpened considerably. He could keep track of three or four
conversations going on at the opposite end of the room from where he
sat, seemingly engaged in conversation with the cat under the table. To
the guests he criticized the quality of the food, to the editors the
news writers. Five minutes later he urged the same writers to ask an
increase in salary because the editor said they were indispensable. From
his brains like from the body of a spider emanated daily a web of
intrigues which enveloped every one the moment he entered the place. And
everybody cursed fate that the man was blind.
Then one day a rich uncle of Feldman, the vers libre poet, died and left
to the nephew a considerable fortune: five thousand dollars. A hundred
friends counseled Feldman how to spend his money usefully. Some urged a
new paper, others a new café. Old friends urged him to become their
publisher and some public men wanted him to donate at least part of it
to charity. Horn arrogated to himself the right to counsel the poet
because Feldman had married his former fiancée. Horn was continually at
Feldman's elbows. Whatever proposition was brought to the poet Horn
ridiculed or explained away.
One day Feldman gave a banquet to all his friends. Among them were a few
physicians, and one of them was an eye specialist. This man had once
expressed an opinion that Horn's eyesight could be restored through an
operation. When the gathering was at its merriest Feldman got up and
pledged two thousand dollars to the physician who would restore to Horn
his eyesight. The eye specialist accepted and named a great surgeon who
would operate for the price. Every one congratulated the blind man and
wished him good luck.
I knew how much Feldman had always hated Horn. Horn also had a strong
aversion for the formerly poor poet. After the banquet I called the host
to a corner of the room and inquired what had prompted him to such a
charitable act; to spend half of his fortune on that scoundrel!
"Why, haven't you guessed? Man alive, it's now five years that I am
burning with desire to punch Horn's face for a turn he has done me. But
he was blind and therefore immune. I shall not be able to sleep until
the operation is over. And if God is good to me I will wait for Horn at
the door the first day he comes out from the hospital and punch him
black and blue. You understand? I want to have the first privilege."