Daniel Yarosh - The Death of Hercules - A DocuNovel

They stopped here rather than the bigger city of Krakow because lodging would be more convenient and less expensive. They found beds near the central train station, eight men to a room and women in a separate room and planned to leave in the morning. They all were tired from a day of traveling, and Zalmund looked especially slow and flushed. Max heard him sleep restlessly, and he sometimes stifled a cough, or turned his head into his bed, or suddenly sat up. But the next morning Zalmund was away early.

He walked quickly through the open square across from the train station, his cloudy breath puffed ahead in the cold winter air, but he perspired. A block away between Adama Mickiewicza and Skargi streets was the Great Synagogue of Katowice, built in 1900, with red brick façade, giant circular stained-glass windows and an immense dome in contrasting blue tile capping its profile. Inside the entrance he put on his tallis prayer shawl and shuffled quietly into the main sanctuary, lit by colored light flowing through the colossal windows. Only two dozen men were scattered near the front, rocking forward and back, mumbling their prayers. A gloomy mood hung over the congregation. He spotted the rabbi, Rabbi Ezekiel Lewin, near the front of the worshipers and he moved to stand next to him. He introduced himself as Rabbi Zalmund Hofitz, as a professional courtesy. Rabbi Lewin barely looked up, nodded and returned to his prayers.

“From Koszuty, near Poznan,” Zalmund added.

Rabbi Lewin looked up and fixed his gaze. “Poznan?”

“Yes,” Zalmund nodded.

“Who did you study with?” And the interview went on. The Rabbi asked about Zalmund’s professional connections, which were few, but Lewin was hopeful that he traveled in different rabbinical circles. “Do you speak Polish?” the Rabbi asked.

“Of course,” Zalmund answered, wiping perspiration from his upper lip, despite the cold inside. “And how is your congregation?” he asked, again as a professional courtesy.

“Oy, this is the worst of times.” A long pause and Lewin pursed his lips. “I have someone you must meet,” the Rabbi said.

“Me? I am just here during Shabbos ,” Zalmund said surprised.

But the Rabbi took Zalmund by the elbow and led him toward a man in his 40s, dark hair and clean shaven, fervently praying in the center of the sanctuary. He wore his tallis covering his head, a heavy blue wool coat and leather shoes.

“Bruno,” the Rabbi said, “this is Rabbi Zalmund Hofitz from Poznan. Rabbi, this is Bruno Altmann, a man of our community, a macher . He has a sheet metal factory in town. You two should talk.” Bruno and Zalmund looked at each other, then back at Lewin, who nodded with a knowing frown.

Altmann took Zalmund to the rear of the sanctuary and began the story. “It is a terrible time here. With Germany defeated and the Bolsheviks in Russia, we will soon be given over to the Poles, who hate us.” He stopped, looked down and took a deep breath.

“I wish I could help,” Zalmund said with a distant and slightly bored voice.

“It is worse. We have a family here, Jacob Vogelman, who are machatonim (family relations) of Samuel Reichmann of Beled (Hungary).” With this, Zalmund’s ears perked up. Reichmann was already known as a wealthy Jewish merchant and philanthropist. “The family made a fortune selling eggs. Now they have a near monopoly on eggs from the Ukrainian kulaks who did not want the Bolsheviks to expropriate their harvest, so they smuggle them out to Reichmann.”

“So good business,” Zalmund said, urging him on.

“Yes, yes,” Altmann continued, looking up directly to Zalmund. “We have another family here of Hamor Hivitsky, Poles who are real devotees of Denikin.”

“Oy,” Zalmund said. He recognized the name of General Anton Denikin, a leader of the Polish Cossacks and the anti-Bolshevik Volunteer Army. They were known as virulent anti-Semites.

“Yes, well, Hivitsky’s son Szechem and a few of his friends got drunk one night and kidnapped Dinah Vogelman, Jacob’s oldest daughter. We fear the worst for her. They’re holding her at Hivitsky’s estate.”

“For ransom?” Zalmund asked in a weary voice.

“I wish,” Altmann replied. “They don’t want just a payment. They want the egg business in Silesia.” A long pause. “They are now saying Szechem will marry Dinah, tomorrow, and that will be her dowry.”

Zalmund dropped his shoulders. “This can happen, here?” he asked, and coughed. His head and chest hurt, and he sat down in a pew in the last row.

“There is no authority to help us,” Altmann explained. “The Germans have left, and the Poles can’t wait to take over. It is clear if we resist, they will start a pogrom and we all will be eliminated.”

“When is the wedding?” Zalmund sighed.

“Tomorrow.

“Really? Tomorrow? What do you want me to do?” Zalmund asked.

“Talk with them. In their language. Maybe someone from outside can show them there is a better way for them. Find a price. We will pay.”

“Have you talked about money before?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then what has changed?” Zalmund asked.

“We must keep trying,” Altmann pleaded.

Zalmund looked at his shoes and sighed. His head hurt. This had nothing to do with him. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the flowing river; he was not swimming but carried by the current. He bobbed and released his mind. He was now not a person, but a part of a story, a history, a movement, an instrument, a wave much larger than himself. Suddenly, he looked up directly at Altmann.

“Send a trusted messenger to Mr. Hamor Hivitsky. Tell him an important rabbi from Poznan has come to consecrate the marriage.”

“What!” Altmann barked in astonishment.

“Do as I say. Tell them you will receive them at your home tonight to meet the rabbi. All their sons and their friends. Tell them there will be food and lots of vodka. Tell them.”

“Are you crazy!” Altmann nearly screamed.

“Listen to me, Altmann. I know these people,” Zalmund said. “They will come for the vodka. When they have had their second toast and are feeling well, I will talk to them about a payment. They will be in a kinder mood. It will, God willing, end well for all.”

“I don’t know,” Altmann demurred.

“No matter what, Herr Altmann, it is better that you know who they are and start with a smile, than you see them next at the end of a sword. Agreed?”

“I see,” Altmann hesitated.

“One more thing, Herr Altmann. I will bring the wine and vodka. It is my gift. Don’t let anyone else bring anything else to drink, and if they do throw it away. Understood? I know what they like. Promise me. And tell all your people, they should leave the vodka for the other family so there will be enough. Its treif (not kosher). The Jews should only drink the wine. Just the wine. We have to be clear-headed. You understand?”

Altmann nodded and Zalmund left the sanctuary. When he drew his first breath of the outside cold air, he coughed in a fit. He headed into town to find a pharmacy that might have something for him.

After sundown, Zalmund left the rooming house with Max and Deena in tow. He had explained to them that he needed the day to rest before leaving again, and that he had met a prominent Jew of town who had invited them to his home to end Shabbos . They did not believe him, but he looked tired and spent. Deena went to look after him, and Max went to help Deena. They were both just a little curious what this might all be about, since Zalmund had made an acquaintance in this small town so quickly. So they walked a few blocks past the Great Synagogue to a red brick house in a row of fine homes. As they strode up the stairs, the door opened and Altmann greeted them.