The Family Moskat (27 page)

"Papa,
you
loved me," she murmured aloud. "You were the only one."

3

All the time Meshulam Moskat lay on his sickbed, Rosa Frumetl, Leah, Naomi, and Koppel prowled and sniffed about the house, each suspecting the other of having the keys to the iron safe in the study. Where, each of them wondered, had the old man hidden the jewels and ornaments that had belonged to his first two wives, as well as the diamonds and precious stones they knew he had hoarded in recent years? Once, while the others were out, Naomi tried to force the door of the safe with a poker, but it refused to budge. True enough, in all the confusion it would have been easy to grab some of the silver cups and beakers, the candlesticks and trays, but Naomi had not sunk quite so low as that. Then there were the trunks full of muffs, fur coats, dresses of silk, satin, and velvet, packed away in camphor. But one would have to be insane to go to the trouble of taking any of these ancient fineries.

Anyway, Naomi had managed to accumulate a small fortune--

more than seven thousand rubles--and at the end she decided to remain honest. She and Manya kept a sharp eye on everyone.

-169-Leah made no

secret of her searchings. She peered into trunks, emptied wardrobes, went through piles of papers, shook out every article of apparel that belonged to the old man. The key was not to be found.

In the meanwhile the Moskat sons and sons-in-law, who were administrators of individual buildings, stopped turning the rents over to Koppel. It was a long-established custom for them to make an appearance at the old man's office on the Friday after the eighth of each month and turn in an accounting. At such times the writing-desk would be piled high with paper money, heaps of silver and coppers. Each of the administrators would present a list of those who were late in paying. Meshulam had never been known to evict any delinquent tenant, yet there was constant talk of evictions and legal action. Joel always had news of some bargain in real estate that could be got for next to nothing, and Meshulam would tell Koppel to make a note of the address and take a look at the property after the Sabbath.

Koppel went to the office every day. He sat at the desk, smoked cigarettes, read the newspapers, and yawned. The old retainers who collected a pension would come in, hat in hand, to ask respectfully how the boss was getting along. Koppel told them that things were no better. Yechiel Stein, the bookkeeper, had also taken to his bed; his daughter came around to complain that for two weeks now there hadn't been a grosz of wages and that there wasn't a copper for food for the sick man. To which Koppel answered: "If it were up to me you could have it," and let her know that he himself had not collected his salary either.

He got up from the chair, planted himself at the window, and looked down into the courtyard. Everything was falling apart with neglect. The stairways that led up to the upper floors were half-rotten. Panes were missing in windows, the holes covered with cardboard or stuffed with rags. The impoverished tenants, with no money for coal, burned up the lumber that belonged to Reb Meshulam. Koppel had said hundreds of times that the parasites ought to be thrown out, the building demolished, and a decent court of houses put up. But of late it had been impossible to persuade the old man to make any changes.

Yes, everything was different. When Koppel had become bailiff, Meshulam had carried on vast enterprises. The money poured in from all sides. Meshulam was constantly building, speculating on the Bourse, acquiring partnerships, and making investments.

-170-In those days

Koppel was always on the move. He had traveled second-class, had stopped overnight at hotels, taken drinks with merchants--

wealthy ones--and Polish gentry. Meshulam's sons had trembled before him; his daughters and daughters-in-law had flattered him.

Traders and commission men had tried to win his favor with gifts.

As a matter of fact it was from the money he had made in those days that Koppel had managed to acquire the two-story house in Praga where he now lived and to accumulate the thousands of rubles he had in the bank. In the old days he had hoped that he would be Meshulam's son-in-law one day. He had not given up hope even when Leah had been married off to the widower, that prayerhouse bench-warmer Moshe Gabriel.

Then, when he had turned seventy, Meshulam had pulled in his horns. He had liquidated most of his holdings and had held on only to the tenements. He had put his cash into the Imperial Bank in St. Petersburg, which paid a low rate of interest, and purchased stocks and bonds, which had never fluctuated over the years and which paid conservative dividends. According to Kop-pel's figuring, the old man should have been worth a round million, apart from what he had in his safe and the other treasures he had hidden away.

Koppel thought more than once that the common-sense thing would be to spit at the whole mess and go his own way. He could start some real-estate brokerage, or even live comfortably on what he had. His wife, Basha, was no spendthrift; out of the fifteen rubles a week he gave her for household expenses, she al-ways had something left over. His children, Manyek, Shosha, Yppe, and Teibele, were growing up nicely and giving him no trouble.

Manyek was studying at a commercial school. Shosha was a real beauty. Yppe, unfortunately, limped a bit; she had to wear a brace on her left leg, but a dowry was ready for her. Teibele was still a child. Yes, Koppel could afford to tell all the Moskats to go to the devil. Just the same, there were a lot of accounts he had to settle with them.

His feeling for Leah had not diminished over the years; instead, it had grown stronger. Leah already had a grown daughter. If Masha should get married, Leah might find herself a grandmother within the year. But in Koppel's eyes she was still a young girl. Whenever he saw her, with her high bosom and her rounded hips, the lace hem of her petticoat showing, desire for her would overwhelm him. She lived a life of perfect respecta--171-bility, but Koppel knew well that she was straining at the leash. Moshe Gabriel was not the husband for her; only a few days before, she had said to Koppel: "III bring the thing to an end. It's only that I don't want to upset my father."

But to divorce his own wife and marry Leah, Koppel would need a lot of money. And to that end he would have to stay around the family. He had worked carefully for years to reach the point where the old man would name him executor in his will. He often imagined himself married to Leah and head of the family enterprises. He would ride in a carriage with rubber wheels; he would become an elder of the community council, go to the Sabbath services in the Great Synagogue. He would arrange matches for the Moskat grandchildren which would unite the big Polish Jewish fortunes. He would open his own bank, "The Bank of Moskat and Berman." He would have a seat on the Bourse, be held in esteem by the Governor-General, go about in a tall silk hat.

He would journey with Leah to take the waters at the fashionable spas.

But nothing had gone the way Koppel had hoped. Meshulam's sudden illness was the finishing touch. It was clear that the old man had not made out a will. Koppel would not get a copper.

Besides, Leah had begun to suspect that he wasn't so powerful after all. She had said something to him about the key to the safe and had hinted about being ready to make some sort of arrangement with him. But Koppel had acted as though he didn't understand her. "And I was under the impression that there was nothing you didn't know," Leah had said. "I thought that Koppel Berman wasn't one of your ordinary people."

And Koppel had flushed and answered: "What did you expect me to be? A magician?"

4

Late one afternoon, as Koppel sat in the office smoking one cigarette after another, the toe of his boot dislodged a lower drawer of the desk. He opened it. Inside were some seals, a bottle of India ink, a few tablets of sealing wax, gummed paper, a hodge-podge of articles. At the back of the drawer was a small jar. Koppel took the cover off. Inside was the key to Meshulam's safe; Koppel recognized it by the deeply indented notches and the wide shank.

The shock was so great that he even forgot to be -172-surprised. It

was a duplicate key, he could tell; it had never been used. Koppel hefted it on the palm of his hand. "They've probably cleaned the safe out by now," he thought, "but I might as well take a look just the same."

He put on his coat and derby, picked up his briefcase, and went out. On the steps he lit a fresh cigarette. "The first thing is to be calm," he reflected. "Otherwise it won't do." In the courtyard the janitor's wife greeted him and said something about the goose he had asked her to fatten up for him for the Passover. Koppel told her the Passover was still a long way off. "There's plenty of time,"

he said. "The bird can keep on gorging."

He turned his steps toward the Gzhybov. The sun was setting.

There was an early tang of spring in the air. At the end of the square a horse had fallen and broken its leg, and a crowd had gathered around. In front of Meshulam's house the baker's girl was quarreling with a customer who insisted on pinching every roll before making her choice. The inner stairway was dark, the lamp still unlit. Koppel rang the bell and Manya answered, in her hand the inevitable deck of cards. She looked at him with her short-sighted slanting eyes.

"Oh, it's you. Koppel."

"Yes. What's the news around here? How's the old man?"

"May his enemies have it no better."

"Where's Naomi?"

"Went out."

That was good. Naomi had kept her eye on him during the last few days as though he were a thief. In order to fend off any possible suspicion of his intentions, Koppel began to banter Manya.

"So you're still laying out those cards?" he asked jocularly.

"What else is there to do?"

"They say if you're unlucky at cards you're lucky at love."

"I'm unlucky at both."

Koppel looked at her appraisingly. Manya wrapped her shawl tighter about her; she didn't fancy having anything to do with a married man.

"I'll put on the light," she remarked.

"Don't bother." He struck a match and lit a fresh cigarette. Manya went back to the kitchen. Koppel coughed softly. Apparently there was no one in the house except the sick man and the nurse. No lights showed from any of the rooms. He pushed open -173-the door of the

study. The window shades were half-drawn and the faint glow of the gas lamps shone in from the street. Bars of light raced across the ceiling and lost themselves in the room's dark corners. The door of the safe shone dully, like a black mirror. Koppel listened intently, holding his breath. He took the key out of his pocket. It was now or never. He tried to fit the key in the lock, but it wouldn't go in; it slipped aside and scraped loudly against the steel door. He wanted to strike a match, but he did not dare. All of his senses were wary. He felt around the keyhole with the tips of his fingers; it was stuffed up--with wax or putty. He took a penknife from his pocket and picked the keyhole clean. Then he inserted the key carefully. This time the key fitted. He turned it toward the right. The lock gave with a creaking sound, but the door still remained tight. He tugged hard and the door yielded.

The safe must have been packed full, for even in the darkness he could see bundles of papers tumbling down, one after another, helter-skelter, like something in a dream. They were unmistakably banknotes. He could tell by the even size and the wrinkled edges.

From then everything went quickly. Koppel got down on his knees, unloosed the straps of his briefcase, spread it wide, and began to stuff the bundles of money inside. It was hardly a moment before the capacious case was full; he had to struggle to close it again. He stuffed banknotes into his breast pockets, his side pockets, and his trouser pockets. He picked up the briefcase, amazed at its weight; he had not thought that paper could be so heavy. While he was buckling the strap the steel tongue pricked his finger, deep under the fingernail. "I'll get myself a case of blood-poisoning," he thought. He put his finger in his mouth and began to suck it. "I mustn't leave a trace of blood." He felt like a murderer removing clues.

For a while he stood still, thinking he heard footsteps. With trembling hands he closed the door of the safe and locked it. He went out into the hallway. In the dimness he thought he saw the pale outline of a face.

"Manya," he called.

There was no answer. 'The shape melted away as though his voice had exorcized it. His words sounded hollow in his own ears. On the floor he saw a banknote. Could he have dropped it?

He bent to pick it up, but it was only a faint patch of light reflected on the floor. "I'm getting nervous," he thought. He felt -174-his temples

throbbing and the sweat pouring out under his col-lar. He began to shuffle about noisily. He opened the door to Meshulam's room.

A dim lamp glowed. The enormous shadow of a head wavered back and forth on the ceiling. The nurse in her white cap turned toward him and put a warning finger to her lips.

On the outside stairway the lights had not yet been turned on. He saw no one as he went out. What's happened to them all," he wondered, "to leave the old man alone?" Disconnected phrases, long-forgotten Hebrew words, went through his mind. For a while he stood in indecision about which direction to turn, whether toward the Tvarda or the Gnoyna. He started to walk toward the Tvarda. He slipped and almost fell. A group of worshippers were coming out of a prayerhouse. A peddler was hawking Purim noise-makers. Was it already so close to the holiday, Koppel wondered. A droshky drove by and Koppel signaled it.

Climbing in, he barked his knee on the step. He sat down and put the briefcase alongside him. "Where to?" the driver asked, and Koppel, astonished, realized that he could not remember his own address.

"Over the Praga bridge," he said.

The driver scratched the back of his neck, snapped his whip, and wheeled the carriage around, the swiftness of the maneuver almost sending Koppel to the floor. Suddenly he remembered the putty that had been stuffed into the keyhole of the safe. Whose work was that? Naomi's! That's what would give him away. "I'm done for. I'm finished. There'll be an investigation and everything'll be discovered. Maybe I'd better jump out and run away.