Free A Book of Great Worth by Dave Margoshes Page B

labour.”
    “I’m glad you could come,” Schechter said. “Those shits at the English papers, they don’t pay any attention.” He was a big man with a sensitive face who drank coffee occasionally in the Café Royale with a thin actress he was in love with. In Lithuania, my father knew, he had studied to be a doctor, but now he worked in the garment district, his quick fingers racing over patterns with a pair of scissors. He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Heavy labour, sure. This is no kids’ stuff, you know.”
    There had been a strike in one of the sweatshops that abounded like blossoms off the stem of lower Seventh Avenue, and then, mysteriously, there was a fire in the building and two of the organizers of the strike were arrested, charged with arson. Schechter himself had avoided the police only by accident. The fire was the work of gangsters, everyone knew, but fighting back was no easy matter.
    My father lit a cigarette and glanced up the street. On the corner, a light burned in a newsstand but the other shops were dark. He would have liked to stand outside and chat with Schechter but it was cold and he opened the door of the restaurant. “See you inside.” As he moved into the warmth and the clatter of voices from the already crowded tables, he heard the sound of a car on the street but thought nothing of it. The shot rang out just as the door was clicking shut behind him and it didn’t register immediately; even when the glass shattered and Schechter’s shoulders crashed through towards him, he didn’t fully understand what had happened. Then there was confusion, shouting, a man rushing past him, jostling him, knocking him sideways, and he cut his hand on a piece of glass and found himself on his knees, staring into Schechter’s wide open eyes. What he remembered most of that moment, even many years later, was the lack of surprise in them.
    His hand was still bleeding when he got home, hours later, although he had tied a handkerchief around it. Taking notes, telephoning, typing his story, there had been no chance for the wound even to begin to glaze over. The handkerchief was stiff with congealing blood and my father was attempting to take it off, his head lowered, as he climbed the stairs, and he bumped into Shmelke, who was standing at the top of the steps.
    “That woman, she’s here, what should I do?” Shmelke said breathlessly. His massive ears were tinged with red along the rims like warning signs, and his lips seemed bluer than usual.
    “So?” my father said, elbowing past him. “Excuse me. What woman is that?”
    He went to the bathroom and snapped on the light, discarding the bloody handkerchief in the toilet.
    “You don’t understand,” Shmelke whined. He was standing right behind him, his face pressed close to my father’s shoulder. “She’s right here, in my infermal room.”
    “What’s to understand?” my father said. He turned on the cold water tap and plunged his hand into the lukewarm stream. “You should be congratulated, Shmelke. A charming young lady, visiting you here in your own room, and at this hour, no less. Wonderful. You are to be congratulated and I do congratulate you. And wish you good luck.” He was filled with the events of the evening and would have liked nothing better than to share them, again, with anyone interested, even Shmelke, but the man’s single-mindedness irritated him.
    “Morgenstern , sometimes I wonder how such a dope can manage to climb the stairs, let alone turn the knob on the door.” He pulled his head back when he saw the expression that flashed across my father’s face. “You’ll excuse me, I didn’t mean to defend. But this woman, she’s got me in such a tizzle. This svartze .”
    “Oh, that woman,” my father said, his eyes widening. “She’s here?”
    “Here? That’s nothing. Here I could live with. It’s who she’s got with her that sends shavings up my spine.”
    “Her boyfriend?” My father turned off the