The Fighter (3 page)

I show him some of my tricks: headbutt to the nose, knee kick to the groin, elbow poke into the eye. I explain the new rules.

“You'd better stay away from me. And don't come near my brothers, either!”

Fat Yatché's widow looks like an elephant. They call her
Mama Hinde
, that is Mama Gazelle, for fun. She is furious when she sees her son come home covered with blood. How can she accept this? Doesn't she belong to the courtyard's best circles? We hear her heavy step on our staircase. My mother opens the door.

“Is your son, the murderer, here? I'll kill him!”

My mother doesn't dare answer, she's so scared of Mama Hinde. I go to the kitchen and get the ax we use to cut wood for the stove. I come back into our room, ax in hand.

“Go away, Mama Hinde! Old witch! If you ever come here again, I'll split your head open, and then I'll take care of your son!”

My mother can't stand violence. She weeps.

“Oh, ma'm, go away quickly… I've never seen him in such a state. He'd really kill you!”

Mama Hinde goes down to the courtyard.

“The son of Myriam the Seamstress tried to crack my head. He's a crazy demon!” she shouts around.

My mother takes me into her arms and compliments me.

“With a protector like you, nobody will ever bother us anymore. But you really scared me with your ax.”

In 1926, soon after my eleventh birthday (if I was born in 1915), I leave school. My brothers call me lucky, because I stayed there for one more year than they did. Me, lucky? I become a cabinetmaker's apprentice in Warsaw, but I don't learn anything, except how to saw logs twelve hours a day. Good for my arms! To go home to Praga, I must walk across the Vistula. In winter, it is so cold that they have to install small coal stoves every fifty feet on the long bridge. I glide on the ice like a skater from one stove to the next. I have to rub my ears all the time, otherwise they'll freeze in spite of my woolen cap. I often see blue corpses in the middle of the bridge.

When the weather improves, I stop along the way to write slogans on the walls:
Down with fascism! Freedom! Let's say no to anti-Semitism!
My brother Schmiel explained it to me: only a communist revolution can put an end to the plight of the Jews.

“Communism means equality for all human beings. In fact, in the Communist Party, Poles and Jews fight together.”

“In Russia, there was a revolution?”

“Yes. In 1917.”

“So now they let the Jews alone?”

“Of course!”

As I am too young to become a communist militant, I join a group of “pioneers” or young communists. I find it rather strange that nearly all the pioneers are Jewish. When my brothers and I put up posters in the middle of the night, the people who attack us call us stinking Jews without even seeing our faces.

This same year 1926, Marshal Pilsudski leads a military coup, becomes a dictator, and bans the Communist Party. I demonstrate against the ban with thousands of other people. Horse-riding policemen charge at us, kill seven workers with their swords, wound hundreds. I succeed in running away, but I see the gleam of the swords for weeks in my nightmares. My brother Anschel is not so lucky. The police catch him writing slogans on a wall. He spends several months in jail.

My uncle Hersch Wisniak, my father's brother, used to dream of revolution, too. He took part in the series of riots that shook the Russian empire in 1905. Then he fled abroad before the police could catch him and deport him to Siberia. At first he lived in Germany, then he settled in Paris,
and now he has a small leather business there. My mother writes a long letter to him:

My dear Hersch,

I write to you in order to give you news of your nephews and niece. My last-born, Moshe, just left school to become an apprentice with a cabinetmaker. He likes to fight, but doesn't get into real trouble. His brother Anschel is a tailor's apprentice. He already knows how to cut a full suit. Pola, your niece, helps me with my stitching and sewing. She doesn't have a boyfriend yet.

I want to tell you about Schmiel, my firstborn. As you know, he is a leatherworker, just like you. He works for my cousin Layb. He has been cutting and stitching leather for a long time. He has even designed several ladies' handbags. I think he could help you in Paris. Here, I fear for him, because he'll soon reach the age for military service. You remember that the Russians didn't take Jews into their army. Now the Poles take Jews, but then the other soldiers bother them and beat them. He is a very serious boy. I'm sure that you'll be satisfied with him if you let him come to Paris.

Uncle Hersch's business is quite successful, so he needs new workers. Thus, he sends a French visa for his nephew. My mother, my sister, and me, we go to the railway station with Schmiel in January 1927. Anschel can't come with us,
since he's still in jail. My mother imagines all kinds of mishaps.

“Paris is a very big city. There must be anti-Semites everywhere. Be careful!”

“Of course, Mama. Don't worry.”

“How will you find your uncle? If you got lost in the streets of Paris, oy, it would be awful.…”

“Don't you remember? He wrote he'd come to the station.”

“Yes, I remember now. You'll recognize him easily—he looks like your poor father. Take care not to catch a cold!”

My sister pulls my brother's sleeve:

“Schmiel, Schmiel, promise you'll write to me.… You must describe very precisely what ladies wear in Paris. Then I can create dresses according to the latest Paris fashion!”

“I'll write to you all. I'll earn lots of money and I'll send for you.”

My dear Mama, my dear Pola, my dear Anschel (if you're out of jail), my dear Moshe,

I hope your health is as good as mine. The trip took a long time. I spent two nights on the train but didn't sleep much. I wondered what my new life would be like. We crossed Germany and Belgium. The north of France is gray and dreary. When I stepped out of the train, several well-dressed gentlemen addressed me in Yiddish. They wanted me to work in their leather business. They all promised me good wages. I saw Uncle Hersch standing nearby. I recognized him right away, like Mama said I would. I told the gentlemen I already had a boss. Uncle Hersch explained to me why this welcoming party waited for the Warsaw train every day: so many Jewish leatherworkers have settled in Paris that France is now exporting ladies' handbags everywhere. Demand
is booming. They can't make enough of them. Anschel (if you're out of jail) and Moshe, you must definitely learn how to cut and stitch leather. Then you can come here.

Paris is a wonderful city: Would you believe that nobody attacks Jews in the streets? People don't even seem to guess I'm Jewish. Uncle Hersch did advise me to take a French name, so as not to tempt them. So now my name is Jacques. He is Henri.

My dear Pola, I live in a poor neighborhood. I work so hard that I haven't had time to visit the smarter parts of town. So I can't tell you what the elegant Paris ladies wear.

Mama, I gave a little memento to Baruch Seligman, a leatherworker who is traveling to Warsaw. He should bring it to you quite soon.

Your Jacques

The two last words are written from left to right, in French, which seems very refined to us. To write Yiddish, we use Hebrew letters and read them from right to left. As we don't know how to pronounce this strange name (Yakuhess?), we'll keep on saying Schmiel! The Paris memento that Baruch Seligman brings us is a twenty-dollar banknote.

When he comes out of jail, Anschel refuses to follow his elder brother's advice.

“I'm a tailor. I cut beautiful pieces of woolen cloth. It is a
job that requires skill and good taste. I won't become a cobbler or whatever just because ladies' handbags sell well.”

“Leatherworker is not the same thing as cobbler.”

“Listen, Mama, I don't want to go to Paris. Do you think all Jews should leave Poland? The Poles say we do not belong in this country. This would confirm their slander. I must stay here to help the party start the revolution, since Schmiel quit his post.”

In any case, I stop sawing boards at the cabinetmaker's. Wearing my nice suit, I go to Cousin Layb, the leatherworker. To make sure he takes me as an apprentice, I agree to work without being paid. Schmiel sends us dollars from France, so we have enough money for food.

I'm the new guy, so my cousin's employees would like me to be their errand boy and servant. “Moshe, go get me a piece of bread! Bring me some water!” The other apprentices have to obey them if they want to earn their wages. Me, I expect no salary, so I'm free. I know plenty of curses, I have strong fists, I don't let them boss me around. I learn how to cut leather with a special gouge that I must constantly sharpen on a stone. I can soon stick and curl, then “hemstitch” a piece of leather. I make small pieces: purses and wallets. By and by, my fingers become good judges of leather quality. Cousin Layb says I'm quite skillful. He shows me how to rivet leather to the metal clasp of a ladies' bag. This is delicate work. A good riveter earns four times as much as a regular worker.

I create a new style of wallet with paper and cardboard. I show it to a designer. He laughs at me:

“You're just an apprentice. Come see me in ten years!”

…

Does Anschel want to go back to jail? He spends his nights putting up posters on the walls. How long can it last? One night, the police turn up while he's at it. Luckily, he is clever—and learned a trick or two during the months he spent behind bars. He throws his bucket of glue and his posters over the wall, then begins to kiss the girl he's working with as if they were lovers. The cops don't know what to think. They take him to the police station. They lack any incriminating evidence. They let him go, but they warn him:

“If we catch you again, you stinking Jew, we'll play some games that you won't enjoy!”

It's very dangerous for a Jew to be “known by the police.” They can send him to jail for years under some false accusation or even kill him without bothering about the law. So Anschel changes his mind about Paris. While he's waiting for Schmiel to obtain a working permit and send a train ticket, he stays at home. I bring him leather and some tools. I teach him the basics. Having such a fast learner as a student is a real pleasure. He's even more skillful than me!

…

One year after Schmiel, Anschel takes the train to Paris. My mother becomes the queen of the courtyard. Two sons in France, and they send American dollars every month! Everybody here knows we'll soon go and join them. We're angels ready to fly to paradise.

We take the train in May 1929. I am fourteen years old (even if my passport says sixteen). We carry huge bales, tied with miles of string. My mother and Pola need to bring their sewing machines, of course, but my mother also wanted to take her crockery and cutlery. We didn't leave anything in our apartment except the table and beds. We're moving, we're emigrating, we're leaving Poland forever.

During the long journey, we speak of the past and the future. In Poland, we were treated like strangers. We risked our lives every time we left our courtyard. There was no hope and plenty of fear. In Paris, we'll really be strangers. We'll have to learn French. We'll need to work hard.

The train is full of people. We spend thirty-six hours sitting on our bales. Ten minutes before coming into Paris, we see small houses with vegetable gardens, warehouses, factories, garages—suburbs similar to Warsaw's.

“Look, Pola, all the streets are paved!”

“You'll have to give up your favorite pastime, wallowing in mud!”

“Oh, look, a motorcar! Do you think all the French people own motorcars?”

“Don't be stupid! France may be more modern than Poland, but it isn't America.”

The train rolls slowly under the high vault of the railway station. It slows down and stops. Brakes and steam emit loud shrieks. We step down onto the platform with our bales. My mother runs toward two well-dressed gentlemen.

“Schmiel! Anschel! I am so happy to see you again!”

“My name is Jacques, Mama.”

“I'm Albert.”

My brother doesn't pronounce his name Yakuhess, but something like Zhak.

“Wow, Moshe, you've grown up since I saw you last! You'll have to take a French name. Maurice, perhaps. That's close to Moshe. Pola, you'll become Paule. Mama, you'll always be Mama! You've brought too much luggage. I told you to stick to what was strictly necessary. I don't know where we'll put all this stuff…. Albert, take Mama's package.”

“Albert? Who's this Albert? I won't let someone I don't know carry my bag.”

“It's me, Mama, your son! Have you already forgotten my French name?”

My brothers used to share a tiny room. To accommodate us, they've moved.

“We found a bigger room for the whole family—in the nineteenth arrondissement of Paris, near La Villette.”

As it is not very far from the railway station, we walk there. We climb six flights of stairs with the sewing machines
and the bales full of crockery. The room is ten feet long by ten feet wide. Pola, I mean Paule, can't help laughing.

“This is your ‘bigger' room? The other one must have been really tiny! I've heard that French people have water taps inside their homes. Where is it, this wonderful water tap?”

“Well, ahem, it is in the courtyard. The toilets, too.”

“Let me see whether I get it right. It is just like Praga, except over there we had to climb down one flight of stairs to get water, whereas here we climb down six.”

It really looks like our Praga home. We even use two folding beds in the same manner. When one of us wants to pee in the middle of the night, he has to step over the others to get out.