When Meyer reached the quarter of the East Side where eager crowds surge
through a little crooked thoroughfare leading from the old Armory on
Essex Street he encountered unexpected difficulties.
He ran into a section of John Vassar’s congressional district saturated
with the young leader’s ideals of a new Americanism. He was coldly
received.
Benda, the Italian fruit-dealer on the corner, Meyer had marked finally
as his opening wedge in the little clannish community. The Italian was
the most popular man on the street, his store the meeting-place of the
wives and children for three blocks.
Meyer entered the store and to his surprise found it deserted. The
sounds of laughter in the little suite of living-room and kitchen behind
the store told of festivities in progress. He waited impatiently for the
proprietor to return.
Benda was presiding at a function too important to be interrupted by
thoughts of trade. With Angela, his wife, and the neighbors, he was
celebrating the fifth birthday of their only boy, Tommaso, Jr. The kids
from far and near were bringing their little presents and Pasquale, his
best friend, who was returning to Italy by the next steamer, had
generously given his monkey and hand-organ. Benda himself had escorted
Pasquale into the room and had just sprung the big surprise on the
assembled party.
Pasquale was putting the monkey through his tricks amid screams of
laughter when Meyer’s dark face clouded the door leading from the store.
He beckoned angrily to Benda.
“May I see you a minute?”
Benda sprang to meet the unexpected apparition in his doorway while
Angela led Pasquale and the children into the street for a grand
concert. Meyer’s tense face had not passed without her swift glance.
She left the children dancing and entered the store from the front.
Meyer had just offered Benda good wages for his services in the cause
and the Italian was tempted and puzzled.
Angela suddenly confronted Meyer. His suave explanation that the
alliance which he had invited Benda to join was a benevolent order for
self-protection was not convincing.
The wife swung her husband suddenly aside and stepped between the two.
She fairly threw her words into Meyer’s face.
“You go now! My man stick to his beesness. He mak good mon. We got our
little home.”
Meyer attempted to argue. Benda tried to edge in a word. It was useless.
Angela’s shrill voice rose in an endless chorus of protest.
Benda threw up his hands in surrender and re-entered the store. Meyer
angrily turned on his heel and crossed the street to see Schultz, the
delicatessen man on the opposite corner.
Schultz proved impossible from the first. His jovial face was wreathed
in smiles but his voice was firm in its deep mumbling undertone.
“No--mein frient--no more drill for me--I fight no more except for the
flag dot give me mein freedom and mein home!”
The two men held each other’s gaze in a moment of dramatic tension. The
menace in Meyer’s voice was unmistakable as he answered:
“I’ll see you again!”