The room is small.
A wooden floor.
Boards nailed one beside the other:
in all—he has counted them—sixty-four.
and they creak when walked over:
you feel it’s empty below.
A single door
of glass and wood
with the mezuzah hanging at the side
as the Shema requires.
A single door
opening—directly—to the street
to the neighing of horses
and to the dust of the carts
to the creaking carriages
and to the city crowd.
The handle
of red brass
turns badly, sometimes sticks
and has to be lifted, by force, with a tug:
at that point, somehow, it opens.
A skylight in the ceiling
as large as the whole space
so that when it rains hard
the raindrops beat against it
and always seems as if it’s about to crash down
but at least, throughout the day, there’s light
even in winter
and it saves using the oil lamp
which doesn’t burn forever
like ner tamid at the Temple.
And costs money.
The storeroom is behind the counter.
In the middle of the shelves there’s a curtain
and there, behind it, is the storeroom
smaller than the shop
a back room
crammed with parcels and crates
boxes
rolls
remnants
broken buttons and threads:
nothing is thrown away
everything is sold; sooner or later, it’s sold.
The shop, sure, you’d have to say, okay, it’s small.
And seems even smaller
split as it is in half
by the heavy wooden counter
propped like a catafalque
or the dukhan in a synagogue
stretched lengthwise
between those four walls
all of them
covered
to the top
with shelves.
A stool to climb to halfway up the wall.
A ladder to reach higher—if need be—
where the hats are
caps
gloves
corsets
aprons
pinafores
and up at the top, the ties.
For here in Alabama no one ever buys
ties.
Whites only for the Feast of the Congregation.
Blacks on the day before Christmas.
Jews—those few that there are—
for the Hanukkah dinner.
And that’s it: the ties stay at the top.
On the right, low down and below the counter
rolled fabrics
raw fabrics
wrapped fabrics
folded fabrics
textiles
cloths
swatches
wool
jute
hemp
cotton.
Cotton.
Especially cotton
here
in this sunny street in Montgomery, Alabama,
where everything—as we know—
relies
on cotton.
Cotton
cotton
of every kind and quality:
seersucker
chintz
flag cloth
beaverteen
doeskin that looks like deer
and finally
the so-called denim
that robust fustian
work cloth
—“doesn’t tear!”—
which has arrived here in America from Italy
—“doesn’t tear!”—
blue with white warp
used by the sailors of Genoa to wrap the sails
what they call blu di Genova
in French bleu de Gênes
which in English gets mangled into blue-jeans:
try it and see:
it doesn’t tear.
Baruch HaShem! for the cotton blue-jeans of the Italians.
To the left of the room
not fabrics but clothes:
stacked in order on the shelves
jackets
shirts
skirts
trousers
work coats
and a couple of overcoats
though here in the South it’s not like Bavaria
and the cold rarely comes knocking.
Colors all the same
gray
brown
and white
for here, in Montgomery, only poor folk are served:
in their wardrobes, one good set of clothes, just one
for the Sunday service
and on every other day, all to work
head down
no slacking
for people in Alabama don’t work to live
if anything, surely, they live to work.
And he
Henry Lehman
twenty-six years old
German, from Rimpar, Bavaria,
knows that deep down
Montgomery is not so different:
here too there’s the river, the Alabama River
like the River Main there.
And here too there’s the great dusty white road
except that it doesn’t go to Nuremberg or Munich
but to Mobile or to Tuscaloosa.
Henry Lehman
son of a cattle dealer
makes money to live
working like a mule
behind the counter.
Work, work, work.
Closing only for Shabbat
but staying open, for sure, on Sunday morning
when the blacks on the plantations
all go to church for two hours
and fill the streets of Montgomery:
old folk, children, and . . . women
women who—on their way to church—remember
their torn dress
the tablecloth to stitch
the master’s curtains to embroider
and since Sunday is not Shabbat:
“Please, come in, Lehman’s open on Sunday!”
Lehman.
It may be small.
But at least the shop is his.
Small, minimal, minuscule, but his own.
H. LEHMAN is written large on the glass door.
And one day there’ll also be a fine sign, above the door
as big as the whole frontage:
H. LEHMAN FABRICS AND CLOTHING
Baruch HaShem!
Opened with mortgages, guarantees, bills of exchange
and tying up all the money he had:
everything.
Not even half a cent left over.
Everything.
And now, for who knows how long
work, work, work:
for folk buy fabric by the yard
stinting over every inch
and to make a hundred dollars takes three days.
Calculations to hand
which Henry Lehman does and redoes every day.
Calculations to hand:
at least three years to recover expenses
pay the debts
give back to those he owes.
Then, once everyone is paid
then yes
calculations to hand . . .
but here Henry Lehman stops:
meanwhile to work
as the Talmud says:
throw in chametz, the yeast
and then?
Then he will see.
Throw in chametz, the yeast
and then?
Then he will see.
Throw in chametz, the yeast
and then?
Then, he will see.