Chapter 1

New York - 1936

Zweikel

Everyone hangs out at Auster's on Second Avenue. Zweikel is no exception. The candy store is a good place to do business. Like a bookie, which he isn't, he doesn't have an office. Nevertheless, he is treated with respect because he provides a service. And his wife, Stella the Gentile, has a good job as a nurse in the Willard Parker Hospital on Sixteenth Street. Zweikel's poor mama, of blessed memory, would have died a thousand deaths if she'd known about Stella, but she would have been proud of her son's success in his own business.

For a fee, Zweikel arranges to bring families over from the old country. Lately, thanks to the turmoil in Europe, business is so good he buys Stella a real pearl necklace with a diamond clasp, and for himself, a large diamond tie pin, which he is fond of stroking.

He learned the law business from Ikey Zimmerman, a distant cousin who took pity on Zweikel's widowed mother and gave Zweikel a job, mostly delivering documents to Immigration and picking up steamship tickets. A sideline was looking for clients. For each one he found, he received a bonus of twenty-five dollars. Zweikel was particularly adept at this because he was small, slight, and unobtrusive, poorly dressed. His shoes were down at the heels. But he paid attention.

Zimmerman rented a tiny space in Weiss's drug store near the telephone for five dollars a month. He conducted business from an old card table on which a small, hand-lettered sign said: Immigration Services. I. Zimmerman, Attorney.

You could say that Zweikel caught the business as you would a cold because after Zimmerman died, Zweikel painted out Zimmerman's name on the sign, sat down at the flimsy card table, and became M. Zweikel, Attorney.

Like a butterfly from a runty caterpillar, Zweikel, the attorney, blossoms. He's turned into a natty dresser. Always a jacket, a nice starched shirt, a silk tie, shoes polished, a clean handkerchief in his pocket. He smokes the best cigars and tips generously.

The Depression has hurt his business a little, only because he had to lower his prices, and so now he is offering a discount on more than two children.

Take the case of the Ebanholz woman and the child. He'd offered an extra discount for the two. One thousand total, plus passage. Half now, half when they were on the ship. He has all but the last five hundred dollars in his pocket, and Ebanholz is to give Stella the final payment today. The ship left from Bremerhaven yesterday.

He'll be glad to see the last of Nathan Ebanholz. Stella has a fever for him. Not that it hasn't happened before. But this time, although Zweikel is neither particularly intelligent or even sly, he senses it is different. She works with Ebanholz at the hospital. Zweikel is sure he's shtupping her, and this Ebanholz, what is he? Nothing but a poor slob. Not like Zweikel with a successful business. Of course, Zweikel is barely five feet even with his hat on, and Ebanholz is as big and as broad as a Cossack.

Auster puts another egg cream in front of him, wipes up the pale chocolate puddle, and takes away the empty glass.

Zweikel knows Stella has other men. She is a lot of woman. Over a head taller than he, she wears her blond hair braided around her head like a crown. On top of this she pins her real crown, a high white pleated cap. She has no hips or ass at all, but high round breasts with huge nipples that push against the fabric of her white uniform, luring men like flies to honey.

She's been married before, or so she says. There is a child, a girl, whom she boards out with a Polish couple who have six of their own.

Yes, she attracts men. They take one look at those nipples pressing on the fabric and they can't keep away. But Stella likes, as she always tells him, only circumcised men, which means Jews. His cigar has gone out.

"Zweikel! There he is. Zweikel!" Yankel Berman is jumping like a jumping jack near the door, trying to get Zweikel's attention.

Soon Berman is pushing his way through the crowd of people, towing behind him a confused looking young man in a yarmulka and ill-fitting clothing.

Business, Zweikel thinks.

"Zweikel!" Pointing Zweikel out to the young man in the yarmulka, he says, "Jakey, this is a great man, let me tell you."

Yankel Berman is a fat baker, with three chins. He sweats even in the winter. He's dripping with it now and Zweikel wonders if he sweats into the bread.

"This is my cousin, Jakey Schimm from Brooklyn," Berman says. "He's got a job for you. He wants you should bring over his wife and five children."

Zweikel cocks his head. Brooklyn. A wife, five children. He smacks his lips and orders another egg cream. And feeling generous of spirit, he treats Berman and his cousin to their own.

"Zweikel knows everything, let me tell you," Berman says, snuffling his egg cream. "He brought over Sarah and her mother, may she move in with her son in Chicago, last year. Listen, Zweikel. Tell him, Jakey."

Jakey opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He is a man of small stature, not much taller than Zweikel himself, pale, with skin so thin you can see the little blue veins in his cheeks.

"So tell me, Jakey." Zweikel is inspecting Schimm's overcoat. Good quality. "Your family is presently in Lublin?" Zweikel prompts. Lublin is where Berman comes from. He drops the dead cigar in the empty egg cream glass.

"Jakey has a little trouble with his English, but he can stitch a seam you wouldn't believe. They come from all over for him to tailor."

Zweikel congratulates himself. He takes a stub of a pencil and a small pad from his pocket. He touches the blunt point of the pencil to his tongue, then poises over the pad. "So, where in Lublin?"

"N-n-n-no, n-n-n-no." Schimm is a stutterer.

"So then where?"

"N-n-n-near B-B-B-Brzesco."

"I'm telling you," Berman says, clapping his cousin on the back, "Zweikel is a magician. He can do anything. He's the best."

"A wife, five children. How old?"

"T-T-T-Twenty-s-s-s-seven."

"Not the wife, the children."

Berman looks embarrassed. He smiles apologetically. "He's nervous. Don't be nervous, Jakey."

"What does he got to be nervous about?" Zweikel says, but he is proud that people are nervous in front of him. It shows respect. After all, he doesn't take just anybody as a client, although Stella doesn't understand why not. He draws the line on Communists. And anarchists. That is it. They are too hard to get through immigration. Anarchists are crazy. You never know what they'll do. And the Communists talk too much. They can talk your ear off about workers' rights.

"F-f-four, f-f-five, s-s-s-six, s-s-s-seven." Schimm's eyes are moist behind his glasses.

"That's four only."

"Twins, he's got," Berman says, tweaking his cousin's cheek. "I'm telling you . . ."

"Healthy?"

"Of course, healthy. What then?" Berman has taken over, having obviously lost his patience.

"Two thousand five hundred it'll have to be. Fifteen hundred in cash after we shake on it."

"Don't worry, Zweikel, he can pay."

"Give me the address, why don't you?" Zweikel growls. He could have charged more. He sees that. "And the names. If you want I should get things started. It's not so good in Europe right now."

"Y-y-yes, y-y-y-yes." The cousin's head is bobbing up and down like he's davening or something.

"It's terrible these days," Berman says. "Only last week in Brzesco, near where Jakey's wife and children are, the anti-Semites set fire to a house and burned up an old lady, a woman, and a child."

"I need a deposit of five hundred from you," Zweikel says. His fingers are itching. "What's the address?"

"Gimme da pencil, Zweikel. Jakey will write it for you. It's easier."

Zweikel hands over the pencil. "Okay already."

"So, Berman, how is the bread business?" Bookie Sam Meltzer comes over to talk while Schimm writes, painstakingly shaping each letter, his nose grazing the pad.

"Come on, come on, Jakey. You don't have to make a Rembrandt. Here." Berman snatches the pencil and pad from his cousin and hands it to Zweikel. "Give him the money, Jakey."

Jakey reaches into his coat, unbuttons his shirt, pulls a string and up comes a small pouch. Hunching in on himself, he counts off five hundred dollars in wrinkled fifties as Bookie Sam, Zweikel, and Berman watch. Impatient, Berman pulls the bills from Jakey's hand and pushes them at Zweikel. "Here, Zweikel, get started."

Zweikel counts the money, lining up the heads one on top of the other. He folds the wad once and puts it in his pocket. "So now we're in business." He looks down at the names and the address on the pad. Gut, Zakliczyn. It's the exact same place that Ebanholz comes from. Near Brzesco. From where Zweikel's bringing over Ebanholz's wife and child. A chill comes over him.

"So, okay?" Berman says.

"So, okay." Zweikel clears his throat. "So, Schimm, maybe you know a distant relative of mine from Zakliczyn, near Brzesco?"

"M-m-maybe."

"By the name of Ebanholz."

Schimm's already pale skin turns pasty. "You-you n-n-know him?"

Zweikel pats the pocket where he put the fifties. "A distant relative. I lost touch. What about it?"

"It's a tragedy, let me tell you," Berman says. "This Ebanholz doesn't even know yet about his family because no one knows where he is. Everything burned up in the house with them. Jakey put an advertisement in the Forwards today."

"N-N-Nat-t-than E-e-ebanholz."

If Zweikel had been alone, he would have torn his hair from his head, which is a good thing because his hair is already thinning. He waits for them to leave, then he pays for the egg creams and threads his way out of the candy store. He needs something a whole lot stronger than an egg cream.