Flesh and Blood (12 page)

“Well, you could always check out that synagogue I told you about.”

“I will.”

Riviera thought for a moment. “But maybe I have a better idea,” he said. “Especially if you feel like a little
schmoozing.
” He smiled. “There's this housing project down in Chelsea. People down there will talk your head off.”

“What housing project?”

“It's called Consolidated Housing,” Riviera said. “It's on the West Side. Ninth Avenue at 23rd Street. There're a lot of old needle-trade survivors around there. They sit around the social room and bullshit about the old days.” He shrugged. “Some of them might have known Hannah back when she was a working girl.”

Frank wrote down the address.

“As far as anybody around here,” Riviera added, “I don't think you'd find much. I mean, the police have tried, but I don't think they came up with anything.”

“Did you tell them about the housing project?”

Riviera shook his head. “No. But I don't think they'd have been interested in going that far back. I mean, they figure Hannah's death for some kind of psycho thing. At least that's what they told me.”

“Or something to do with her business,” Frank added.

“There's always that possibility.”

“Did they question many people around here?” Frank asked.

“Quite a few,” Riviera said. “And just like you said, they were looking for some sort of beef at work. Somebody Hannah had fired, something like that.” He nodded toward Frank's notebook. “But if you're working a different angle, you ought to check out those old farts in Chelsea before you do anything else.” He laughed. “You won't have any trouble getting them to talk. All they've got left is memory, and, believe me, they work that pushcart up the whole street.” He stood up, as if dismissing Frank authoritatively.

Frank remained seated, his notebook still open.

Riviera looked at him curiously. “Is there anything else? I mean, are you through?”

Frank nodded slowly. “Yeah, I guess I am,” he said.

Riviera swept his arm toward the door. “Come, then,” he said. “I'll walk you to the elevator.”

“Thanks.”

Within a few seconds, the two of them were back in the lobby.

“We do nice work here,” Riviera said, as he pointed to the graceful waves of strangely radiant cloth that swept along the walls.

“Yes, you do,” Frank said.

“It's a rough business, no doubt about it,” Riviera added. He smiled. “But what comes out of it is good.”

10

The large square building on 23rd Street was constructed of plain red brick and surrounded by long stretches of corroding storm fence. A cracked cement walkway led to the entrance.

An old woman stood at the front door, her body wrapped in a large cloth coat, her head covered with a thick scarf which she gathered at the neck and held with a gloved hand. She shrank back slightly as Frank approached, and he nodded to her quickly, then stopped before he came too close.

“Is this Consolidated Housing?” he asked.

“Yes,” the old woman told him.

“I'm looking for the social room.”

“Inside and to the right,” the woman said. She continued to eye Frank suspiciously. “You looking for someone in particular?”

“No,” Frank said. “Just anybody who lives in the building.”

The old woman turned and pointed through the glass doors to a wide tiled corridor. “There are always a few people in the common room,” she said. “First door on the right.”

There was a small cluster of people near the back of the room, all of them sitting around a long rectangular table. Several of them watched Frank curiously as he approached.

“Sorry to bother you,” Frank said as he stepped up to the table. He took out his identification. “I'm a private investigator, and I'm trying to find out a few things about a woman some of you might have known.”

A large woman with brightly painted lips turned toward him. “So what do we look like,
Information Please?
”

“It would help me to find out a few things,” Frank said. “She's dead.”

An old man jerked his head up quickly. “Dead?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “In that case, I probably know her.” He looked at the others and smiled. “It's the live ones, I got no connection.”

The woman poked him lightly in the ribs. “You know why, Izzy? Your connection is too short.”

The others laughed, and Frank laughed with them.

“Sit down,” the old man said. “We'll talk. We love to talk.”

Frank sat down.

“I'm Izzy Berman,” the old man said. He nodded one by one to the two other people at the table. “This is Clara Zametkin, and this guy with the little Irish cap, he's Benny Shein.”

“Glad to meet you,” Frank said.

Berman leaned forward slightly, cocking his ear. “Now who was this woman you're talking about?”

“Her name was Hannah,” Frank said. “Hannah Karlsberg.”

The three people exchanged glances, then shook their heads slowly.

“She worked in a sweatshop on Orchard Street,” Frank said.

“When did she do that?” Benny asked.

“Early thirties.”

Benny looked at Clara. “You should know her,” he said. “You were down there.”

Clara thought about it. “Karlsberg,” she repeated softly, “Hannah Karlsberg.” She looked at Frank. “I don't think so.”

“She was a rabbi's daughter,” Frank added. “Someone told me that he had a synagogue around Fifth Street and the Bowery.”

Suddenly the old woman's face seemed to grow softly illuminated. “Hannah Karlsberg?” she asked again.

“The rabbi died,” Frank said. “And that's when she came to Orchard Street. She had a couple—”

“Kovatnik,” the old woman blurted. “Her name was Kovatnik, Hannah Kovatnik.”

The two old men exchanged glances.

“Hannah Kovatnik?” Benny said. “You're talking about Hannah Kovatnik?”

Clara looked at him determinedly. “Got to be, Benny. Who else?” She turned to Frank. “Oh, yes, I remember Hannah. Everyone remembers Hannah.” She glanced at the others. “Remember that time in the meeting hall? That night Schreiber was going on about a strike, and all the girls were there? All of them crowded together. What a noise. Remember that?”

Benny nodded. “Who could forget?”

“Oh yes,” Berman said. “Oh God, yes.”

“And Schreiber was going on about the defeats,” Clara continued, “the weakness.”

Benny shivered slightly. “Putting us to sleep, that one. Always whining. I used to say to Leon Jaffe, ‘Leon, how come they don't send a big strong man to talk to us? How come always this Schreiber?' Such a sniveler. Always picking at himself. Tics, so many tics.” His lips curled down disgustedly. “And I'm supposed to listen to such a person, maybe risk my neck for such a person?” He waved his hand. “Forget it.”

Clara seemed not to hear him. “And still, while Schreiber is going on, comes up from nowhere, this girl. What was she? Nineteen? Twenty?” Her eyes darted over to Frank. “Comes up this girl to the platform, and she starts to talking in Yiddish, starts to talking about what's going on in her shop.” She shook her head. “Such a speech she made, you wouldn't believe it. Such a speech, without a paper in her hand. Coming from her heart.” She looked intently at Berman. “Am I right?”

“Absolutely,” Berman said. He looked at Frank pointedly. “You listen to Clara. She knows.”

“She was speaking maybe ten minutes,” Clara went on, “but it didn't matter. Could have been an hour, no one would have moved. But it was maybe ten minutes, and when it was over, there was such a commotion, you couldn't believe it.”

Benny laughed. “And Schreiber didn't know what to do. He looked ridiculous. Like a clown, a fool. This girl had made him look like that.”

“But there was nothing for him to do,” Clara told him vehemently. “Hannah was doing everything.” Her eyes swept back to Frank. “And then, at the end of it, she says, now this was in Yiddish, she says, ‘You got to strike. You got to strike. So, tell me, you will strike?' And all the girls, they yell back, yes, they will strike. And Hannah, she puts her hand above her head, and she says, in Yiddish she says, ‘Then give me the Jewish pledge.'” Her eyes grew fiery as she repeated it. “‘If I betray you, may my hand wither and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.'” Her eyes widened. “That's what she said. And—boom—that's what they did.”

The three old people nodded together.

“That's right,” Berman said. “That's what it was like that night.”

Frank took out his notebook. “When was that?”

“That was in December of 1935,” Clara answered. “I remember because my brother, may he rest in peace, had just died of TB.”

“And when did you see Hannah again?” Frank asked.

“After that? Oh, well, after that, we saw a lot of Hannah,” Clara answered. She looked at the others. “Some people, they make a stir, then they disappear. But not Hannah. She led the girls, led the strike.”

“She led the strike?” Frank asked.

“She started it,” Clara said, “and so she finished it. That's the way Hannah Kovatnik was.”

“How did she lead it?”

“She worked with the union.”

“Which union?”

“The AGW,” Benny chimed in. “The American Garment Workers.”

“Hannah was a member?”

“Of course,” Clara said. “It was a union meeting, the one she spoke at. Schreiber, he was the local bigwig. He was on the Central Committee.”

Again, Berman waved his hand. “Such a sniveler.”

Clara nodded briskly at Frank's notebook. “Take down his name. Leon Schreiber, a big thing in the union.”

Berman shook his head. “He was a
putz
, that one.”

“Is he still alive?” Frank asked immediately.

“Leon? No. Been dead for years.”

Clara looked at Berman scornfully. “He wasn't such a
putz
, Leon. He worked hard.” She glanced back at Frank. “But he was a sort of what you call, what we call, a
schlemazel
.”

“You see, a
putz
,”
Berman yelped. “Just like I said.”

Frank continued to keep his attention on Clara.

“A person who … who … who don't know how to act,” Clara explained, “an unfortunate person, always getting messed up.”

“That's putting the best light on it,” Berman said with a laugh.

Benny touched Berman's shoulder. “Izzy,” he scolded, “let Clara talk.”

“So anyway,” Clara went on, “we saw a lot of Hannah. She was all over the neighborhood. Late at night you'd see her on Orchard Street. Early in the morning, on Ludlow Street, or Hester, maybe, or any of the streets that needed something. Sometimes food, some pumpernickel, a little herring. A little encouragement, maybe. It depended what they needed. Whatever it was, like they say, she did what she could. But she couldn't do everything. Who can? She couldn't make the world over. But like it's written in the Talmud, to make it over, this is not required of a person. But to do what one person can to make it over, this much is a
mitzvah
, a good deed.”

“And Hannah did it, that's for sure,” Benny said emphatically. “She was like a voice in the wilderness that night in the meeting hall.”

“No one ever forgot it,” Berman added. “A thrill like that don't come too often.” He grinned impishly. “And at my age now, it don't come at all.”

“Do you remember her sisters?” Frank asked.

“I remember one of them,” Clara said. “She was younger. I forget her name. But she was always with Hannah, always walking next to her.” She smiled. “They always looked nice. Hannah always kept herself looking nice. The sister, too. The little girl. Hannah kept her hair brushed, and always that little white apron. Clean, you know, kept nice.”

“And what about the other sister?”

“I don't remember her much. Maybe just a little.”

“Was she older? Younger?”

“Near Hannah. Younger, older, who knows?” Clara said. She looked back at the two older men. “You remember anything about the other sister?”

The two old men shook their heads.

“I remember the little one,” Benny said. “She was very pretty, but I got no idea about her name.”

“What about friends?” Frank said. “From the old days.”

“You mean of Hannah?” Clara asked.

“Yes.”

Clara stared at the two men thoughtfully. “Friends?” she repeated, almost to herself. “Wasn't there a girl Hannah used to see?” She stopped, trying to remember. “From some little place in Galicia.”

The two men stared at her expressionlessly.

“They all came from the same place,” Clara went on, “the ones that lived in her building.”

“Where was her building?” Benny asked.

“On Rivington Street. Where Clinton comes into it.”

Benny nodded his head. “Yes, sir. From Lemberg, Galicia. All those people came from Rivington. That was their
landslayt
.”
He thought a moment. “She stayed in the union, this girl. For many years.” Again he stopped to consider. “Polansky,” he said finally. “Etta Polansky.”

Clara clapped her hands together softly. “That's the name. Etta Polansky. I remember now.”

“And she was a friend of Hannah's?”

“A good friend, yes,” Clara assured him. “They were together a lot, those two.”

Frank wrote down the name, then looked back up at Clara.

“Do you have any idea where I could find her?”

“So many years,” Clara said. “I don't know.” She glanced at the others. “You got maybe an idea?”

The two men shrugged helplessly, then suddenly Berman spoke up. “Well, try the phone book.”