Feld, the shoemaker, was annoyed that his helper, Sobel, was so
insensitive to his reverie that he wouldn’t for a minute cease his
fanatic pounding at the other bench. He gave him a look, but Sobel’s
bald head was bent over the last as he worked and he didn’t notice. The
shoemaker shrugged and continued to peer through the partly frosted
window at near-sighted haze of falling February snow.
Neither the
shifting white blur outside, nor the sudden deep remembrance of snowy
Polish village where he had wasted his youth could turn his thoughts
from Max the college boy, (a constant visitor in the mind since early
that morning when Feld saw him trudging through the snowdrifts on his
way to school) whom he so much respected because of the sacrifices he
had made throughout the years – in winter or direst heat – to further
his education. An old wish returned to haunt the shoemaker: that he had
had a son instead of a daughter, but this blew away in the snow for
Feld, if anything, was a practical man. Yet he could not help but
contrast the diligence of the boy, who was a peddler’s son, with
Miriam’s unconcern for an education. True, she was always with a book in
her hand, yet when the opportunity arose for a college education, she
had said no she would rather find a job. He had begged her to go,
pointing out how many fathers could not afford to send their children to
college, but she said she wanted to be independent. As for education,
what was it, she asked, but books, which Sobel, who diligently read the
classics, would as usual advise her on. Her answer greatly grieved her
father.
A figure emerged from the snow and the door opened. At the counter
the man withdrew from a wet paper bag a pair of battered shoes for
repair. Who he was the shoemaker for a moment had no idea, then his
heart trembled as he realized, before he had thoroughly discerned the
face, that Max himself was standing there, embarrassedly explaining what
he wanted done to his old shoes. Though Feld listened eagerly, he
couldn’t hear a word, for the opportunity that had burst upon him was
deafening.
He couldn’t exactly recall when the thought had occurred to him,
because it was clear he had more than once considered suggesting to the
boy that he go out with Miriam. But he had not dared speak, for if Max
said no, how would he face him again? Or suppose Miriam, who harped so
often on independence, blew up in anger and shouted at him for his
meddling? Still, the chance was too good to let by: all it meant was an
introduction. They might long ago have become friends had they happened
to meet somewhere, therefore was it not his duty – an obligation – to
bring them together, nothing more, a harmless connivance to replace an
accidental encounter in the subway, let’s say, or a mutual friend’s
introduction in the street? Just let him once see and talk to her and he
would for sure be interested. As for Miriam, what possible harm for a
working girl in an office, who met only loud-mouthed salesmen and
illiterate shipping clerks, to make the acquaintance of a fine scholarly
boy? Maybe he would awaken in her a desire to go to college; if not –
the shoemaker’s mind at last came to grips with the truth – let her
marry and educated man and live a better life.
When Max finished describing what he wanted done to his shoes, Feld
marked them, both with enormous holes in the soles which he pretended
not to notice, with large white-chalk x’s, and the rubber heels, thinned
to the nails, he marked with o’s, though it troubled him he might have
mixed up the letters. Max inquired the price, and the shoemaker cleared
his throat and asked the boy, above Sobel’s insistent hammering, would
he please step through the side door there into the hall. Though
surprised, Max did as the shoemaker requested, and Feld went in after
him. For a minute they were both silent, because Sobel had stopped
banging, and it seemed they understood neither was to say anything until
the noise began again. When it did, loudly, the shoemaker quickly told
Max why he had asked to talk to him.
‘Ever since you went to high school,’ he said, in the dimly-lit
hallway, ‘I watched you in the morning go to the subway to school, and I
said always to myself, this is a fine boy that he wants so much an
education.’
‘Thanks,’ Max said, nervously alert. He was tall and grotesquely
thin, with sharply cut features, particularly a beak-like nose. He was
wearing a loose, long slushy overcoat that hung down to his ankles,
looking like a rug draped over his bony shoulders, and a soggy, old
brown hat, as battered as the shoes he had brought in.
‘I am a business man,’ the shoemaker abruptly said to conceal his
embarrassment, ‘so I will explain you right away why I talk to you. I
have a girl, my daughter Miriam – she is nineteen – a very nice girl and
also so pretty that everybody looks on her when she passes by in the
street. She is smart, always with a book, and I thought to myself that a
boy like you, and educated boy – I thought maybe you will be interested
sometime to meet a girl like this.’ He laughed a bit when he had
finished and was tempted to say more but had the good sense not to.
Max stared down like a hawk. For an uncomfortable second he was silent, then he asked, ‘Did you say nineteen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would it be all right to inquire if you have a picture of her?’
‘Just a minute.’ The shoemaker went into the store and hastily returned with a snapshot that Max held up to the light.
‘She’s all right,’ he said.
Feld waited.
‘And is she sensible – not the flighty kind?’
‘She is very sensible.’
After another short pause, Max said it was okay with him if he met her.
‘Here is my telephone,’ said the shoemaker, hurriedly handing him a
slip of paper. ‘Call her up.
She comes home from work six o’clock.’
Max folded the paper and tucked it away into his worn leather wallet.
‘About the shoes,’ he said. ‘How much did you say they will cost me?’
‘Don’t worry about the price.’
‘I just like to have an idea.’
‘A dollar – dollar fifty. A dollar fifty,’ the shoemaker said.
At once he felt bad, for he usually charged tow twenty-five for this
kind of job. Either he should have asked the regular price or done the
work for nothing.
Later, as he entered the store, he was startled by a violent clanging
and looked up to see Sobel pounding with all his might upon the naked
last. It broke, the iron striking the floor and jumping with a thump
against the wall, but before the enraged shoemaker could cry out, the
assistant had torn his hat and coat from the hook and rushed out in to
the snow.
So Feld, who had looked forward to anticipating how it would go with
his daughter and Max, instead had a great worry on his mind. Without his
temperamental helper he was a lost man, especially since it was years
now that he had carried the store alone. The shoemaker had for an age
suffered from a heart condition that threatened collapse if he dared
exert himself. Five years ago, after an attack, it had appeared as
though he would have either to sacrifice his business upon the auction
block and live on a pittance thereafter, or put himself at the mercy of
some unscrupulous employee who would in the end probably ruin him. But
just at the moment of his darkest despair, this Polish refugee, Sobel,
appeared one night from the street and begged for work. He was a stocky
man, poorly dressed, with a bald head that had once been blond, a
severely plain face and soft blue eyes prone to tears over the sad books
he read, a young man but old – no one would have guessed thirty. Though
he confessed he knew nothing of shoemaking, he said he was apt and
would work for a very little if Feld taught him the trade. Thinking that
with, after all, a landsman, he would have less to fear than from a
complete stranger, Feld took him on and within six weeks the refugee
rebuilt as good a shoe as he, and not long thereafter expertly ran the
business for the thoroughly relieved shoemaker.
Feld could trust him with anything and did, frequently going home
after an hour or two at the store, leaving all the money in the till,
knowing Sobel would guard every cent of it. The amazing thing was that
he demanded so little. His wants were few; in money he wasn’t interested
– in nothing but books, it seemed – which he one by one lent to Miriam,
together with his profuse, queer written comments, manufactured during
his lonely rooming house evenings, thick pads of commentary which the
shoemaker peered at and twitched his shoulders over as his daughter,
from her fourteenth year, read page by sanctified page, as if the word
of God were inscribed on them. To protect Sobel, Feld himself had to see
that he received more than he asked for. Yet his conscience bothered
him for not insisting that the assistant accept a better wage than he
was getting, though Feld had honestly told him he could earn a handsome
salary if he worked elsewhere, or maybe opened a place of his own. But
the assistant answered, somewhat ungraciously, that he was not
interested in going elsewhere, and though Feld frequently asked himself
what keeps him here? Why does he stay? He finally answered it that the
man, no doubt because of his terrible experiences as a refugee, was
afraid of the world.
After the incident with the broken last, angered by Sobel’s behavior,
the shoemaker decided to let him stew for a week in the rooming house,
although his own strength was taxed dangerously and the business
suffered. However, after several sharp nagging warnings from both his
wife and daughter, he went finally in search of Sobel, as he had once
before, quite recently, when over some fancied slight – Feld had merely
asked him not to give Miriam so many books to read because her eyes were
strained and red – the assistant had left the place in a huff, an
incident which, as usual, came to nothing for he had returned after the
shoemaker had talked to him, and taken his seat at the bench. But this
time, after Feld had plodded through the snow to Sobel’s house – he had
thought of sending Miriam but the idea became repugnant to him – the
burly landlady at the door informed him in a nasal voice that Sobel was
not at home, and though Feld knew this was a nasty lie, for where had
the refugee to go? Still for some reason he was not completely sure of –
it may have been the cold and his fatigue – he decided not to insist on
seeing him. Instead he went home and hired a new helper.
Having settled the matter, though not entirely to his satisfaction,
for he had much more to do than before, and so, for example, could no
longer lie late in bed mornings because he had to get up to open the
store for the new assistant, a speechless, dark man with an irritating
rasp as he worked, whom he would not trust with the key as he had Sobel.
Furthermore, this one, though able to do a fair repair job, knew
nothing of grades of leather or prices, so Feld had to make his own
purchases; and every night at closing time it was necessary to count the
money in the till and lock up. However, he was not dissatisfied, for he
lived much in his thoughts of Max and Miriam. The college boy had
called her, and they had arranged a meeting for this coming Friday
night. The shoemaker would personally have preferred Saturday, which he
felt would make it a date of the first magnitude, but he learned Friday
was Miriam’s choice, so he said nothing. The day of the week did not
matter. What mattered was the aftermath. Would they like each other and
want to be friends? He sighed at all the time that would have to go by
before he knew for sure. Often he was tempted to talk to Miriam about
the boy, to ask whether she thought she would like his type – he had
told her only that he considered Max a nice boy and had suggested he
call her – but the one time he tried she snapped at him – justly – how
should she know?
At last Friday came. Feld was not feeling particularly well so he
stayed in bed, and Mrs. Feld thought it better to remain in the bedroom
with him when Max called. Miriam received the boy, and her parents could
hear their voices, his throaty one, as they talked. Just before leaving
Miriam brought Max to the bedroom door and he stood there a minute, a
tall, slightly hunched figure wearing a thick, droopy suit, and
apparently at ease as he greeted the shoemaker and his wife, which was
surely a good sign. And Miriam, although she had worked all day, looked
fresh and pretty. She was a large-framed girl with a well-shaped body,
and she had a fine open face and soft hair. They made, Feld thought, a
first-class couple.
Miriam returned after 11:30. Her mother was already asleep, but the
shoemaker got out of bed and after locating his bathrobe went into the
kitchen, where Miriam, to his surprise, sat at the table, reading.
‘So where did you go?’ Feld asked pleasantly.
‘For a walk,’ she said, not looking up.
‘I advised him,’ Feld said, clearing his throat, ‘he shouldn’t spend so much money.’
‘I didn’t care.’
The shoemaker boiled up some water for tea and sat down at the table with a cupful and a thick slice of lemon.
‘So how,’ he sighed after a sip, ‘did you enjoy?’
‘It was all right.’
He was silent. She must have sensed his disappointment, for she added, ‘You can’t really tell much the first time.’
Turning a page, she said that Max had asked for another date.
‘For when?’
‘Saturday.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘What did I say?’ she asked, delaying for a moment – ‘I said yes.’
Afterwards she inquired about Sobel, and Feld, without exactly
knowing why, said the assistant had got another job. Miriam said nothing
more and began to read. The shoemaker’s conscience did not trouble him;
he was satisfied with the Saturday date.
During the week, by placing here and there a deft question, he
managed to get from Miriam some information about Max. It surprised him
to learn that the boy was not studying to be either a doctor or lawyer
but was taking a business course leading to a degree in accountancy.
Feld was a little disappointed because he thought of accountants as
bookkeepers and would have preferred ‘a higher profession’. However, it
was not long before he had investigated the subject and discovered that
Certified Public Accountants were highly respected people, so he was
thoroughly content as Saturday approached. But because Saturday was a
busy day, he was much in the store and therefore did not see Max when he
came to call for Miriam. From his wife he learned there had been
nothing especially revealing about their meeting. Max had rung the bell
and Miriam had got her coat and left with him – nothing more. Feld did
not probe, for his wife was not particularly observant. Instead, he
waited up for Miriam with a newspaper on his lap, which he scarcely
looked at so lost was he in thinking of the future. He awoke to find her
in the room with him, tiredly removing her hat. Greeting her, he was
suddenly inexplicably afraid to ask anything about the evening. But
since she volunteered nothing he was at last forced to inquire how she
had enjoyed herself. Miriam began something non-committal but apparently
changed her mind, for she said after a minute, ‘I was bored.’
When Feld had sufficiently recovered from his anguished
disappointment to ask why, she answered without hesitation, ‘Because
he’s nothing more than a materialist.’
‘What means this word?’
‘He has no soul. He’s only interested in things.’
He considered her statement for a long time but then asked, ‘Will you see him again?’
‘He didn’t ask.’
‘Suppose he will ask you?’
‘I won’t see him.’
He did not argue; however, as the days went by he hoped increasingly
she would change her mind. He wished the boy would telephone, because he
was sure there was more to him than Miriam, with her inexperienced eye,
could discern. But Max didn’t call. As a matter of fact he took a
different route to school, no longer passing the shoemaker’s store, and
Feld was deeply hurt.
Then one afternoon Max came in and asked for his shoes. The shoemaker
took them down from the shelf where he had placed them, apart from the
other pairs. He had done the work himself and the soles and heels were
well built and firm. The shoes had been highly polished and somehow
looked better than new. Max’s Adam’s apple went up once when he saw
them, and his eyes had little lights in them.
‘How much?’ he asked, without directly looking at the shoemaker.
‘Like I told you before,’ Feld answered sadly. ‘One dollar fifty cents.’
Max handed him two crumpled bills and received in return a newly-minted silver half dollar.
He left. Miriam had not been mentioned. That night the shoemaker
discovered that his new assistant had been all the while stealing from
him, and he suffered a heart attack.
Though the attack was very mild, he lay in bed for three weeks.
Miriam spoke of going for Sobel, but sick as he was Feld rose in wrath
against the idea. Yet in his heart he knew there was no other way, and
the first weary day back in the shop thoroughly convinced him, so that
night after supper he dragged himself to Sobel’s rooming house.
He toiled up the stairs, though he knew it was bad for him, and at
the top knocked at the door. Sobel opened it and the shoemaker entered.
The room was a small, poor one, with a single window facing the street.
It contained a narrow cot, a low table and several stacks of books piled
haphazardly around on the floor along the wall, which made him think
how queer Sobel was, to be uneducated and read so much. He had once
asked him, Sobel, why you read so much? And the assistant could not
answer him. Did you ever study in a college someplace? He had asked, but
Sobel shook his head. He read, he said, to know. But to know what, the
shoemaker demanded, and to know, why? Sobel never explained, which
proved he read much because he was queer.
Feld sat down to recover his breath. The assistant was resting on his
bed with his heavy back to the wall. His shirt and trousers were clean,
and his stubby fingers, away from the shoemaker’s bench, were strangely
pallid. His face was thin and pale, as if he had been shut in this room
since the day he had bolted from the store.
‘So when you will come back to work?’ Feld asked him.
To his surprise, Sobel burst out, ‘Never.’
Jumping up, he strode over to the window that looked out upon the miserable street. ‘Why should I come back?’ he cried.
‘I will raise your wages.’
‘Who cares for your wages!’
The shoemaker, knowing he didn’t care, was at a loss what else to say.
‘What do you want from me, Sobel?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I always treated you like you was my son.’
Sobel vehemently denied it. ‘So why you look for strange boys in the
street they should go out with Miriam? Why you don’t think of me?’
The shoemaker’s hands and feet turned freezing cold. His voice became
so hoarse he couldn’t speak. At last he cleared his throat and croaked,
‘So what has my daughter got to do with a shoemaker thirty-five years
old who works for me?’
‘Why do you think I worked so long for you?’ Sobel cried out. ‘For
the stingy wages I sacrificed five years of my life so you could have to
eat and drink and where to sleep?’
‘Then for what?’ shouted the shoemaker.
‘For Miriam,’ he blurted – ‘for her.’
The shoemaker, after a time, managed to say, ‘I pay wages in cash,
Sobel,’ and lapsed into silence. Though he was seething with excitement,
his mind was coldly clear, and he had to admit to himself he had sensed
all along that Sobel felt this way. He had never so much as thought it
consciously, but he had felt it and was afraid.
‘Miriam knows?’ he muttered hoarsely.
‘She knows.’
‘You told her?’
‘No.’
‘Then how does she know?’
‘How does she know?’ Sobel said, ‘because she knows. She knows who I am and what is in my heart.’
Feld had a sudden insight. In some devious way, with his books and
commentary, Sobel had given Miriam to understand that he loved her. The
shoemaker felt a terrible anger at him for his deceit.
‘Sobel, you are crazy,’ he said bitterly. ‘She will never marry a man so old and ugly like you.’
Sobel turned black with rage. He cursed the shoemaker, but then,
though he trembled to hold it in, his eyes filled with tears and he
broke into deep sobs. With his back to Feld, he stood at the window,
fists clenched, and his shoulders shook with his choked sobbing.
Watching him, the shoemaker’s anger diminished. His teeth were on
edge with pity for the man, and his eyes grew moist. How strange and sad
that a refugee, a grown man, bald and old with his miseries, who had by
the skin of his teeth escaped Hitler’s incinerators, should fall in
love, when he had got to America, with a girl less than half his age.
Day after day, for five years he had sat at his bench, cutting and
hammering away, waiting for the girl to become a woman, unable to ease
his heart with speech, knowing no protest but desperation.
‘Ugly I didn’t mean,’ he said half aloud.
Then he realized that what he had called ugly was not Sobel but
Miriam’s life if she married him. He felt for his daughter a strange and
gripping sorrow, as if she were already Sobel’s bride, the wife, after
all, of a shoemaker, and had in her life no more than her mother had
had. And all his dreams for her – why he had slaved and destroyed his
heart with anxiety and labor – all these dreams of a better life were
dead.
The room was quiet. Sobel was standing by the window reading, and it was curious that when he read he looked young.
‘She is only nineteen,’ Feld said brokenly. ‘This is too young yet to
get married. Don’t ask her for two years more, till she is twenty-one,
then you can talk to her.’
Sobel didn’t answer. Feld rose and left. He went slowly down the
stairs but once outside, though it was an icy night and the crisp
falling snow whitened the street, he walked with a stronger stride.
But the next morning, when the shoemaker arrived, heavy-hearted, to
open the store, he saw he needn’t have come, for his assistant was
already seated at the last, pounding leather for his love.
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