swallow-tailer clean, unt Izzy done der best to keep his suit vot I had
on clean, but dere vas a lot of beer on der floor unt ven der committee
come unt put us out in der street—my! ve looked terrible! But nobody
could make no more monkey business vit me dat night. ‘Izzy,’ I says—I
vas holding him in der neck—‘take dot evening dresser off or else gif up
all hopes!’ I vas a desperate character, unt he could read it in der
tone uv my voice. He took der swallow-tailer off—right out on der
sidewalk uv der street. Den I put it on unt I vas getting all dressed
while he vas standing in his underclothes, trying to insult me. Unt just
ven I got all dressed unt he vas standing mit der pants in his hands
calling me names vot I didn’t pay no attention to, but vot I vill get
revenge for some time, dere comes up a p’liceman. Ve both seen him
together, but I vas a qvicker t’inker as Isidore, so I says, ‘Mister
P’liceman, dis man iss calling me names.’ He vas a Irisher, dot
p’liceman, unt he hit Izzy vun mit his club, unt says, ‘Vot do you mean
by comin’ in der street mitout your clothes on? You are a prisoner!’ So
I says, ‘Good-night, Isidore!’ unt I run across der street to der
Montefiore ball. Dey all looked at me ven I got in like if dey wanted to
talk to me, but I vas t’inking only uv Miss Rabinowitz. I found her by
her mamma.
“‘Miss Rabinowitz,’ I says, ‘I haf kept my word. I promised to come
back, unt here I am!’ She gafe me a look vot nearly broked my heart.
‘You are a drunker,’ she says.
“‘Miss Rabinowitz,’ I says, ‘dem iss hard words.’ ‘Go away,’ she says.
‘You look like a loafer. Instead of helping your friend you haf been
drinking.’ Den her mamma gafe me a look unt says, ‘Drunken loafer, go
‘way from my daughter or I will call der police.’
“Vot could I do? As proud as I could I left her. Den a committee comes
up to me unt says, ‘Moritz, go home. You look sick.’ Dey vas all
laughing. Den somebody says, ‘He smells like a brewery vagon.’ Vot could
I do? I vent home.
“Der next morning Isidore comes home. ‘Moritz,’ he says, ‘you are a
fool.’ I gafe him vun look in his eye. ‘Isidore,’ I says, ‘you are der
biggest loafer I haf efer seen.’ Ve haf never had a conversation since
dot day.
“My! Such a loafer!”
DEBORAH
Her name was Deborah. When Hazard first saw her she was sitting on the
steps of a tenement with Berman at her side, Berman’s betrothal ring on
her finger, Berman’s arm around her waist. “Beauty and the beast!”
Hazard murmured as he stood watching them. He was an artist, and a
search for the picturesque had led him into Hester Street—where he found
it.
Presently Hazard crossed the street, and, with a low bow and an air of
modest hesitation that became him well, begged Berman to present his
compliments to the young lady at his side and to ask her if she would
allow an enthusiastic artist to make a sketch of her face. Hester Street
is extremely unconventional. Deborah looked up into the blue eyes of the
artist, and, with a faint blush, freed herself from her companion’s
embrace. Then she smiled and told the artist he could sketch her. In a
twinkling Hazard produced book and pencil. While he sketched they
chatted together, ignoring Berman completely, who sat scowling and
unhappy. When the sketch was finished the artist handed it to Deborah
and begged her to keep it. But would she not come some day to pose for
him in his studio? Her mother or sister or—with a jerk of his thumb—this
sturdy chap at her side could accompany her. And she would be well paid.
Her face fitted wonderfully into a painting he was working on, and he
had been looking for a model for weeks. His mother lived at the studio
with him—the young lady would be well cared for—five or six visits would
be sufficient—a really big painting. Yes. Deborah would go.
When Hazard had departed, Deborah turned to her lover and observed, with
disappointment, that he looked coarse and ill-favoured.
“It is getting late,” she said. “I am going in.”
“Why, _Liebchen_,” Berman protested. “It is only eight o’clock!”
“I am very tired. Good-night!”
Berman sat alone, gazing at the stars, struggling vainly to formulate in
distinct thoughts the depth and profundity of his love for Deborah and
the cause of that mysterious feeling of unrest, of unhappiness, of
portending gloom that had suddenly come over him. But he was a
simple-minded person, and his brain soon grew weary of this unaccustomed
work. It was easier to fasten his gaze upon a single star and to marvel
how its brightness and purity reminded him so strongly of Deborah.
In the weeks that followed he saw but little of Deborah, and each time
he observed with dismay that a change had come over the girl. In the
company of her mother she had been visiting Hazard’s studio regularly,
and the only subject upon which Berman could get her to talk with any
degree of interest was the artist and his work.
“Oh, it is a wonderful picture that he is painting!” she said. “It is
the picture of a great queen, with a man kneeling at her feet, and I am
the queen. I sit with a beautiful fur mantle over my shoulder, and,
would you believe it, before I have been sitting five minutes I begin to
feel as though I really were a queen. He is a great artist. Mamma sits
looking at the picture that he is painting hour after hour. It is a
wonderful likeness. And his mother is so kind to me. She has given me
such beautiful dresses. And not a day goes by but what I learn something
new and good from her. I am so ashamed of my ignorance.”
“Each time I see her,” thought Berman, “she grows more beautiful. How
could anyone help painting a beautiful picture of her? She is growing
like a flower. She is too good, too sweet, too beautiful for me!”
The blow came swiftly, unexpectedly. She came to his home while he sat
at supper with his parents.
“Do not blame me,” she said. “I prayed night after night to God to make
me love you, but it would not come. It is better to find it out before
it is too late. You have been so kind, so good to me that it breaks my
heart. Is it not better to come to you and to tell the truth?”
Berman had turned pale. “Is it the painter?” he whispered. A flood of
colour surged to Deborah’s cheeks. Her eyes fell before his.
“He is a Christian, Deborah—a Christian!” he murmured, hoarsely. Then
Deborah’s colour left her cheeks, and the tears started to her eyes.
“I know it! I know it! But——” Then with an effort she drew herself up.
“It is better that we should part. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!” said Berman. And his father arose and called after the
departing figure:
“The peace of God go with you!”
With an artist’s eye Hazard had been quick to perceive the beauty of
Deborah, and the possibilities of its development, and, with an artist’s
temperament, he derived the keenest pleasure from watching that beauty
grow and unfold. Her frequent presence, the touch of her hand and cheek
as he helped her to pose, her merry laughter, and, above all, those big,
trusting brown eyes in which he read, as clear as print, her love, her
adoration for himself, all began to have their effect upon him. And, one
day, when they were alone, and suddenly looking up, he had surprised in
her eyes a look of such tenderness and sweetness that his brain reeled,
he flung his brush angrily to the floor and cried:
“Confound it, Deborah, I can’t marry you!”
Deborah, without surprise, without wonderment, began to cry softly: “I
know it! I have always known it!” she said. And when he saw the tears
rolling down her cheeks he sprang to her side and clasped her in his
arms, and whispered words of love in her ear, and kissed her again and
again.
An old story, is it not? Aye, as old as life, as old as sin! And always
the same—so monotonously the same. And always so pitiful. It is such a
tempting path; the roses bloom redder here, and sweeter than anywhere
else in the wide world. But there is always the darkness at the end—the
same, weary darkness—the poor eyes that erstwhile shone so brightly grow
dim in the vain endeavour to pierce it.
Like a flower that has blossomed to full maturity Deborah began to wilt
and fade. Her beauty quickly vanished—beauty in Hester Street is rarely
durable—Deborah grew paler and paler, thinner and thinner. To do him
full justice Hazard was greatly distressed. It was a great pity, he
thought, that Deborah had not been born a Christian. Had she been a
Christian he could have married her without blasting his whole future
career. As it was—Fate had been cruel. Let Hazard have full justice.
But it fell like a thunderbolt upon Berman when Deborah’s mother sent
for him.
“She has been raving for two days, and she keeps calling your name!
Won’t you sit by her bedside for a while? It may calm her!”
His heart almost stopped beating when he beheld how frail and fever-worn
were the features that he had loved so well. When he took her hand in
his the touch burned—burned through to his heart, his brain, his soul.
“Berman will not come!” she cried. “He was kind to me, and I was so
cruel. He will not come!”
Berman tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. Then, with
that sing-song intonation of those who are delirious with brain fever,
Deborah spoke—it sounded like the chanting of a dirge: “Ah, he was so
cruel! What did it matter that I was a Jewess! What did it matter that
he was a Christian! I never urged him, because I loved him so! He said
it would ruin his career! But, oh, he could have done it! We would have
been so happy! Once he made the sign of the Cross on my cheek. But I
told him I would become a Christian if he wanted me to. What did I care
for my religion? I cared for nothing but him! But he was so cruel! So
cruel! So cruel!”
It was more than blood could stand. With a cry of anguish Berman fled
from the room. In the dawn of the following day Deborah’s mother, grey
and worn, came out of the tenement. She saw Berman sitting on the steps.
“It is over!” she said. Berman looked at her and slowly nodded. “All
over!” he said.
When Hazard awoke that morning his servant told him that a
strange-looking man wished to see him in the studio. “A model,” thought
Hazard. “Tell him to wait.” Berman waited. He waited an hour. Then the
Oriental curtains rustled, and Hazard appeared. He had walked halfway
across the room before he recognised Berman. He recognised him as the
man who sat beside Deborah when he had first seen her. The man who had
his arm around her waist. The man whom he had referred to as a sturdy
chap—who had, indeed, looked strong and big on that starry night. And
who now loomed before his eyes in gigantic proportions. He recognised
him—and a sudden chill struck his heart. Berman walked toward him.
Without a word, without the faintest warning, he clutched the artist by
the throat, stifling every sound. The artist struggled, as a mouse
struggles in the grasp of a cat. From his pocket Berman drew a penknife.
He could hold his victim easily with one hand. He opened the blade with
his teeth. As a man might bend a reed, Berman bent the artist’s back
until his head rested upon his knee. Then, quickly, he slashed him twice
across the cheek, making the sign of a cross.
“You might have married her!” he whispered, hoarsely. Then he threw the
helpless figure from him and slowly walked out of the room.
The newspapers told next day, how a maniac had burst into the studio of
Hazard, the distinguished young painter, and without the slightest
provocation had cut him cruelly about the face. The police were on the
slasher’s trail, but Hazard doubted if he could identify the man again
if he saw him. “It was so unexpected,” he said. To this day he carries a
curious mark on his right cheek—exactly like a cross.
AN INTERRUPTION
In the story books the tragedies of life work themselves out to more or
less tragic conclusions. In real life the most tragic tragedies are
those that have no conclusion—that can have no conclusion until death
writes “Finis!” From which one might argue that many of us would be
better off if we lived in novels. Chertoff, however, lived in Hester
Street, and therefore had to abide by his destiny.
Chertoff was a hunchback. He had a huge head and tremendously long arms
and features of waxen pallor. Children who saw him for the first time
would run from him with fright and would hide in doorways until he had
passed. Yet those who knew him loved him, for under his repellent
exterior throbbed a warm heart, and his nature was kindly and cheering.
In Gurtman’s sweatshop, where he toiled from dawn to nightfall, he was
loved by all—that is, all save Gurtman—for when the day’s task seemed
hardest and the click and roar of the machines chanted the song of
despair that all sweatshop workers know so well, Chertoff would burst
into a lively tune and fill the room with gladness. Then he would gossip
and tell interesting stories and bandy jests with anyone in the room who
showed the slightest disposition to contribute a moment’s gaiety to the
dreary, heart-breaking routine.
It was before the days of the factory inspectors, and conditions were
bad—so bad that if anyone were to tell you how bad they were you would
never believe it. In those days a bright spirit in a sweatshop was no
common thing. One day Gurtman announced that there would be a reduction
of three cents on piece-work, and a great silence fell upon the room. A
woman gasped as if something had struck her. And Chertoff struck up a
merry Russian tune:
“_The miller in his Sunday clothes
Came riding into Warsaw._”
“Why do you always sing those silly tunes?” Gurtman asked, peevishly.
And then Chertoff closed his eyes and answered:
“Perhaps to save your life! Who knows?”
Then he opened his eyes and laughed, and many laughed with him at the
very silliness of the retort, but the sweater only disliked him the more
for it. It was a curious habit of Chertoff’s to close his eyes when
something stung him, and it worked a startling transformation in his
expression. It was as if a light had been extinguished and a sudden
gloom had overspread his features. The lines became sharp, and something
sinister would creep into his countenance. But in a moment his eyes
would open and a light of kindness would illumine his face.
Twice this transformation had come upon him and had lingered long enough
to make the room uneasy. The first time was when Chertoff’s mother, who
had worked at the machine side by side with her son for five years, was
summarily dismissed. Chertoff had asked the sweater for the reason. In
the hearing of all the room Gurtman had curtly replied:
“She’s too old for work. She’s too slow. I don’t want her.”
They thought that Chertoff was fainting, so ashen and so haggard did his
features become. But when he opened his eyes and smiled the iron rod
that he held in his hands was seen by all to have been bent almost
double. The other time—and oh! how this must have rankled!—was when
Gurtman jestingly taunted Chertoff with being enamoured of Babel. For it
was true. Chertoff, in addition to his skill as a workman, was an expert
mechanic, and was quite valuable in the shop in keeping the sewing
machines in repair. He was sitting under a machine with a big
screw-driver in his hand when Gurtman, in a burst of pleasantry, asked
him if it were true that he loved Babel. For a long time no answer came.
Then the screw-driver rolled to the sweater’s feet, crumpled almost into
a ball, and Chertoff’s merry voice rang out:
“Of course I love Babel! Who does not?”
And then all laughed—all save Babel, who reddened and frowned, for, with
all her poverty and with all the struggle for existence that had been
her lot since she was old enough to tread a pedal, Babel was a sensitive
creature, and did not like to hear her name flung to and fro in the
sweatshop. Was Babel pretty? “When a girl has lovely eyes,” says the
Talmud, “it is a token that she is pretty.” Babel had lovely eyes, and
must, therefore, have been pretty. Yet what matters it? Chertoff was
eating out his heart with vain longing for Babel, suffering all the
tortures of unrequited passion, all the agonies that he suffers who
yearns with all the strength of his being to possess what he knows can
never be his. Is not that the true tragedy of life? So what matters it
if Babel be not to your taste or mine? Chertoff loved her.
He had never told Babel that he loved her; never had asked her whether
she cared for him. He had spared himself added misery. Content to
suffer, he did his best to conceal his hopeless passion, and strove with
all his might to lighten the burden of gloom that was the lot of his
fellow-workers. He never could understand, however, why the sweater had
taken so strong a dislike to him. Surely Gurtman could envy him nothing.
Why should a strong, fine-looking man—a rich man, too, as matters went
in Hester Street—take pleasure in tormenting an ugly, good-natured
cripple? It was strange, yet true. Perhaps it was that Chertoff’s cheery
disposition grated upon the brooding, gloomy temperament of the sweater,
or perhaps the cripple’s popularity in the sweatshop was an offence in
his employer’s eyes, or perhaps it was merely one of those unreasoning
antipathies that one man often feels toward another and for which he can
give not the slightest explanation. It was an undeniable fact, however,
that the sweater hated his hunchback employee, and would never have
tolerated him had Chertoff not been so valuable a workman, and, deeming
it unprofitable to discharge him, vented his dislike in baiting and
tormenting Chertoff whenever an opportunity offered itself. And had it
not been for Babel, Chertoff would have gone elsewhere. Hopeless though
he knew his longing to be, he could not bring himself to part from her
presence.
And so matters went until a summer’s night brought an interruption, and
this interruption is the only excuse for this tale. It had been a busy
day, and the sweatshop was working late into the night to finish its
work. It had been a hot day, too, and men and women were nigh exhausted.
The thermometer was ninety-five in the street, but in this room, you
know, were four tremendous stoves at full blast to keep the irons hot.
And the machines had been roaring almost since daybreak, and the men and
women were pale and weary and half suffocated. Chertoff had been
watching Babel anxiously for nearly an hour. She had lost her pallor and
her face had become slightly flushed, which is a bad sign in a
sweatshop. He feared the strain was becoming too great, and the thoughts
that crowded one upon another in his wearied brain were beginning to
daze him. He made a heroic effort.
“Come, Babel,” he said, “if you will stop work and listen I’ll sing that
song you like.”
“Sing it! Sing it!” cried fifty voices, although no one looked up.
“Not unless Babel stops working,” said Chertoff, smiling.
“Stop working, Babel! Stop working! We want a song!” they all cried. So
Babel stopped working and, with a grateful nod to Chertoff, folded her
hands in her lap and settled herself comfortably in her chair and
fastened her eyes upon the door that led into the rear room. Gurtman was
in this rear room filling the benzine cans.
Chertoff began to sing. It was an old Russian folk-song, and it began
like this:
“_Sang a little bird, and sang,
And grew silent;
Knew the heart of merriment,
And forgot it.
Why, O little songster bird,
Grew you quiet?
How learned you, O heart, to know
Gloomy sorrow?_”
He had sung this far when the door of the rear room was flung open and
Gurtman, in angry mood, cried:
“In God’s name stop! That singing of yours is making my back as crooked
as yours!”
Chertoff turned swiftly, with arm upraised, but before he could utter a
word a huge flame of fire shot from the open doorway and enveloped the
sweater, and a crash, loud as a peal of thunder, filled the room.
The benzine had exploded. In a twinkling bright flames seemed to dart
from every nook and cranny, and the wall between the two rooms was torn
asunder. Then a panic of screams and frenzied cries arose, and the
workers ran wildly, some to the door, some to the windows that looked
down upon the street four stories below, some trying frantically to tear
their way through the solid walls. The voice of Chertoff rose above the
tumult. “Follow me!” he cried. “Don’t be afraid!” He seized Babel, who
had fainted, laid her gently upon his misshapen shoulder, and led the
way into an adjoining room where the windows opened upon a fire escape.
“Take your time,” he cried. “Follow me slowly down the ladders. There is
no danger.”
Once out of sight of the flames calmness was soon restored, and one by
one they slowly descended the iron ladders, following the lead of the
hunchback with his burden. Babel soon regained consciousness. She looked
wildly from face to face and then, clutching Chertoff’s arm, asked
hoarsely, “Gurtman! Where is he? Is he safe?”
Chertoff smiled. “Do not worry, Babel. He probably will never torment a
human being again!”
Babel relaxed her hold and every drop of blood left her face. She began
to moan pitifully: “I loved him! I loved him!” She buried her face in
her hands and burst into a fit of weeping. Chertoff’s eyes closed. A
look of hatred, unutterable, venomous hatred, flashed into his face. He
swayed to and fro with clenched fists, as though he would fall. Then
swiftly he raised his head, his eyes opened, and a smile overspread his
face. “Wait, Babel,” he whispered. “Wait!” With the agility of a gorilla
he sprang upon the iron ladder and climbed swiftly upward. The bright
moon cast a weird, twisting shadow upon the wall of the house, as of
some huge, misshapen beast. He reached the fourth story and disappeared
through the open window, whence the smoke had already begun to creep.
Presently he reappeared with the form of Gurtman upon his shoulder, and
slowly descended. With the utmost gentleness he laid his burden upon the
ground and placed his hand over the heart. Then he looked up into
Babel’s face.
“He is alive. He is not hurt much.” Then Babel cried as though her heart
would break, and Chertoff—went home.
Gurtman lived. He lived, and in a few days the sweatshop was running
again exactly as it had run before, and everything else went on exactly
as it had gone on before. Perhaps Chertoff’s pale face became a trifle
whiter, but that only brought out his ugliness the more vividly. He was
a splendid workman, and Gurtman could not afford to lose him. Sometimes
when the task was hard he sang that old song:
“_Sang a little bird, and sang,
And grew silent;
Knew the heart of merriment,
And forgot it.
Why, O little songster bird,
Grew you quiet?
How learned you, O heart, to know
Gloomy sorrow?_”
THE MURDERER
When Marowitz arrived at the station-house to report for duty, the
sergeant gazed at him curiously.
“You’re to report at headquarters immediately,” he said. “I don’t know
what for. The Chief just sent word that he wants to see you.”
Marowitz looked bewildered. Summons to headquarters usually meant
trouble. Rewards usually came through the precinct Captain. Marowitz
wondered what delinquency he was to be reprimanded for. He could think
of nothing that he had done in violation of the regulations.
Half an hour later he stood in the presence of the Chief.
“You sent for me,” he said.
The Chief looked at him inquiringly. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Marowitz.”
The Chief’s face lit up. “Oh, yes,” he said. “From the Eldridge Street
station. Do you speak the Yiddish jargon?”
Marowitz drew a long breath of relief.
“Yes, sir,” he answered. “I live in the Jewish quarter.”
“Good,” said the Chief. “I want you to lay aside your uniform and put on
citizen’s clothes. Then go and look for a chap named Gratzberg. He is a
Russian, and is wanted in Odessa for murder. He is supposed to be hiding
somewhere in the Jewish quarter here. You’ll have no trouble in spotting
him if you run across him. Here,”—the Chief drew a slip of paper from
his desk—“here is the cabled description: Height, five feet seven;
weight, about 150 pounds. Has a black beard. Blue eyes. Right ear marked
on top by deep scar.”
He handed the paper to Marowitz.
“Keep your eyes open,” he said, “for marked ears. It’ll be a big thing
for you if you catch him. When I was your age I would have given the
world for a chance like this.”
When Marowitz left headquarters he walked on air. Here was a chance,
indeed. He had been a policeman for nearly six years, and in all that
time there had come no opportunity to distinguish himself through
heroism or skill, or through any achievement, save the faithful
performance of routine duty. His heart now beat high with hope. How
pleased his wife would be! His name would be in all the newspapers. “The
Murderer Caught! Officer Marowitz Runs Him to Earth!” Officer Marowitz
already enjoyed the taste of the intoxicating cup of fame.
In mounting the stairs of the tenement where he lived Marowitz nearly
stumbled over the figure of a little boy who was busily engaged in
playing Indian, lurking in the darkness in wait for a foe to come along.
The next moment the little figure was scrambling over him, shouting with
delight:
“It’s papa! Come to play Indian with Bootsy!”