Free East Side Stories:Tales of Jewish Life in the Lower East Side of New York in the 1930's by Sidney Weissman Page A

everything. To ward off utter poverty, they had erected this barrier, this savings that they would not touch.
    And after she had found the bankbook she had brought her other son, a boy of three, to be watched by the neighbor next door.
    All the while saying to everyone she met, “How can it be? It must be wrong. It can’t be true, can it?”
    Another neighbor said to her, “Go! Go quick to the bank! Nothing is wrong, you are right, it can’t be. But go. Find your Benny, go find him. Go to the bank. Schnell, Quick!
    She found Benny in the cafeteria, seated at a long white marble-topped table drinking coffee with two of his friends from the shop. Lucky he was there, she thought, approaching him. Unlucky that there hadn’t been work at the shop that day. When that happened, he would go to the cafeteria to drink some coffee and schmooz, talk a little with his friends.
    “Benny!” she said urgently when she was near him. “Benny!”
    He looked up at her, his eyes widened with apprehension. “What? What is it? The kinder, the children, nothing is wrong?”
    “No, no, no,” she said grasping him by his arm. “The bank. Something’s wrong with it. All the people are taking their money out—” She stopped, unable to speak, tears began to stream down her face. “ Oy, Gutt! Oh, God! It can’t be true, it can’t!”
    People at other tables stared at her. Quickly, Benny quickly jumped to his feet. “What?” he said. “The bank?” He glanced at his friends, a baffled look on his face, he shook his head as he looked at his wife. He said to her, “No! It can’t be! It’s a national bank, the bank from the rigeering, the government. It’s their bank, they will never allow anything to go wrong, President Roosevelt won’t allow it, he will see that everything is all right.”
    Yet he joined her and now the both of them dashed out of the cafeteria, the babble of conversation of those inside cut off by its closing door.
    Both of them now running running towards Delancey Street where the bank building was located, pushing people in their way, their breaths hot and cutting into their lungs, their eyes wild, glancing momentarily at each other as they ran.
    “Who told you?” Benny gasped out as they raced on.
    “Mrs. Levine. She heard it from a neighbor.”
    “Mrs. Levine,” he said. “What does she know, hah?”
    “She knows. She knows everything. All the time.”
    “She and her big mouth,” Benny gasped. “She don’t know nothing.” He forced himself into more speed.
    His wife was falling behind. He grasped her by her upper arm, pulled her along as they turned into Delancey Street. They ran towards Orchard Street, they could see a vast crowd of people milling in front of the bank building, police were there too, and from the crowd a moaning and crying of collective grief.
    “Oy vay,” Benny’s wife said. “Look at that! Mein Gutt! My God! It’s true!” She began to sob loud torrents of sorrow. Benny pulled her along with him as he ran. It took forever it seemed, his wife crying out to him, “I can’t, I can’t run no more, please, Benny!” But he dragged her along with him and now at last they were joining the crowd, both with fires in their chests, molten metal in their lungs.
    They stood bent over, attempting to capture their normal breathing, hearing the shouts and the cries, the hurled curses from the crowd. Benny looked up, saw the white faces, the pleading eyes of those around him. At his side his wife was holding her chest as she heaved breaths in and out.
    They tried to force themselves forward into the crowd but it was impossible. They joined the solid mass of humans packed together, wedged together, unable to move. Standing there, those who could, stared at the shut bank doors, others looked at the police as they motioned the crowd into a more solid mass.
    “My money!” Benny shouted out. “Where is my money? Two hundred and seventeen dollars! Where is it?” Others were shouting too,