Word has spread
even beyond the river:
Henry Lehman’s merchandise is first choice.
Baruch HaShem!
Doctor Everson
said so this morning:
he treats the slave children with measles,
and while he treats them
he hears what the people say
in the plantation huts.
Henry Lehman’s merchandise is first choice.
That’s what people say.
Baruch HaShem!
Henry Lehman’s cotton is the best.
Best on the market.
This is what they say.
Baruch HaShem!
Even in the owners’ drawing rooms
Doctor Everson has heard what they say
about the curtain fabrics
and tablecloths
and sheets.
And Henry has toasted his success.
Alone, behind the counter,
with a bottle of liquor
he had bought on arrival
three years ago,
kept in store
to celebrate
sooner or later.
Baruch HaShem!
There again
the account book
is clear enough:
the shop has made
almost a quarter more than last year,
and it is still only May.
Below the sign H. LEHMAN
the red brass door handle
sticks
each time customers turn it to come in,
and with simple business sense
the owner
doesn’t intend to fix it:
it will bring luck,
leaving it as it is
will bring him luck,
as much luck as it has brought so far.
And more.
So that
nothing strange
if even now
for the umpteenth time
under the sign H. LEHMAN,
the red brass handle
sticks once again
under the timid hand
of an unfamiliar customer:
Henry at the counter carries on cutting the cloth,
doesn’t even look up:
“You have to lift it, young lady:
give it a push as you turn,
and at that point, somehow, it opens . . .”
There.
It was at that moment
through who-knows-what mysteries of womankind
that the timid hand became impatient
and yanked the handle
with such unimaginable force
that
the door didn’t just open
but came off its hinges
and crashed to the floor,
with shards of flying glass
that cut the cheek
of the unfamiliar customer.
And Henry Lehman
son of a cattle dealer?
Standing still
behind the counter,
he watches her bleed
not lifting a finger
not even when she asks him please
in resentful tone
for a handkerchief.
“Young lady, exactly which handkerchiefs do you wish to buy?
I have them at two dollars, two fifty, and four.”
“I don’t wish to buy them,
I want to wipe the blood from my face,
don’t you realize I’ve cut myself?”
“Don’t you realize you’ve broken my shop door?”
“The door of your shop had stuck.”
“It had only to be lifted, gently:
if you had listened . . .”
“Look, for the last time:
would you be so kind as to give me a handkerchief?”
“And would you be so kind as to apologize
for the damage you have done?”
“But excuse me, which is more important: your door or my cheek?”
“The door is mine, the cheek is yours.”
To this remark
the unfamiliar customer made no reply:
she could not,
finding herself before a true masterpiece
a rare masterpiece
of reasoning.
She admired him,
and the sense of admiration
as sometimes happens
was greater than the sense of suffering.
“The door is mine, the cheek is yours”
was indeed an extraordinary example
of how Henry Lehman interpreted reality.
“You’re a Head”
his father
the cattle dealer
had said one day
down in Rimpar, yes sir, in Bavaria.
Henry Lehman: a Head.
Pure truth.
Rab Kassowitz was right when he said it, that day:
Henry after fasting
would rather die of hunger
than eat whatever there happened to be.
And it has to be said
Henry was proud
of this way of his,
considering himself endowed
with a deadly weapon
—his head—
before which everyone yielded.
Until that day.
For it just so happens
that the unfamiliar customer was not so pliant.
Hearing him say
“The door is mine, the cheek is yours”
had instantly cooled
though not defeated her.
And here
through who-knows-what mysteries of womankind
the bleeding creature came forward
to the counter
and in a flash
took hold of Henry’s tie,
wiped it across her face
soaking it well
then staring at Mr. Head
spoke a few words
but words of first choice:
“The cheek is mine, the tie is yours”
and not waiting for a response
she left
trampling the glass with her heels.
There is always something tremendous
about the meeting between two Heads.
Had she not backed down to him?
He couldn’t back down to her:
he pursued her,
demanded payment for the damage,
she refused,
he threatened her,
she carried on regardless,
he took hold of her,
she shook him off,
and with all this tussling
on the public street
under the southern sun
they began shouting at each other
to the amusement of the children
for quite some distance along the street
from Lehman’s shop
to the gate of the Wolf house,
where she turned to him:
“If you don’t mind, I have arrived,
thank you so much for your company,
thank you for your kindness, for your discourse,
for your compliments, and for the handkerchiefs: you are a gentleman.”
At this provocation
Henry Lehman
there and then
made no reply:
he could not,
finding himself before a true masterpiece
a rare masterpiece
of rationality.
He admired her with all his being,
and the sense of admiration
as often happens
was greater than the sense of suffering.
Yet it lasted an instant,
for he felt
the strongest urge
to insult her,
and he did so pitilessly:
“Are you the housemaid to the Wolfs?”
“Only if you are the shop assistant to the Lehmans.”
“For your information, I am Henry Lehman:
that shop has been mine for three years.”
“For your information, I am Rosa Wolf,
and this house has been mine for three days.
So, if you don’t mind,
don’t make enemies of your customers.”
This, a phrase of sure effect,
ably delivered by Miss Wolf
with that withering look
which on a woman’s face
cuts down artless victims.
Moreover
she spoke these words just as she was closing the gate,
like a stage curtain,
much disappointing the curious passersby.
There is always something divine
about the meeting of two Heads.
And financially advantageous.
For from that moment
indeed
without realizing it
Henry Lehman
wrote home less frequently
reducing
considerably
the postage costs.
From one letter every three days
he moved to one every seven,
then every ten,
settling in the end on an average of two a month.
And only after seven months
was it suddenly clear to him
that Rosa Wolf
destroyer of glass doors
might detain him in Alabama
for well over three years.
Maybe five.
Maybe ten.
Maybe forever.
What a shame that nothing is more inconvenient
for a Head
than the thankless prospect of falling in love,
for it is well known
that
of all that goes on in the world
love
is the least cerebral.
Henry Lehman tried a way of his own,
that led him to love, yes,
but rationally.
And so:
no flowers,
no pretty umbrellas,
no fond looks,
no gentlemanly courtesy,
but instead
just
just simply
discounts on goods displayed
which for Mr. Lehman,
being much more than merchandise,
his justification for life, his pride and means of survival
were like offering
—to his way of thinking—
no more nor less than life itself.
Financial resources
therefore taken
from postal traffic
were reinvested
prudently
in a broad opening of credit
and generous commercial offers
“. . . WHICH I HAVE DEVISED JUST FOR YOU, MISS ROSA WOLF,
A FOND CUSTOMER OF MY BUSINESS.”
To Henry Lehman
this note
could and should have been read
as a clear expression of courtship.
It was not.
On the contrary.
Miss Rosa Wolf went ’round
telling everyone
not just in Montgomery
but as far away as Tuscaloosa
that Lehman’s shop
yes sir
was knocking down prices
yes sir
so that half of Alabama felt aggrieved
at not receiving the same treatment.
To calm the wave of protest,
he had fixed to the shop door
a large notice
REDUCED PRICES FOR FAVORED CUSTOMERS
and throughout the states of the South
it was perhaps the first time
that a shop devised such an enticement.
Did Henry Lehman think he would make a loss?
He came out with a profit, making double,
and so he congratulated himself
and thereafter
told himself and others
that he had indeed done it intentionally.
But more importantly
by reducing prices on a wide scale
he had to devise for Miss Wolf
a treatment different from the mass,
so that
where discounts were not enough
he had to move on to free gifts,
and so
for the destroyer of glass doors
the high life began:
if she ordered two packs of ribbons,
she magically received four,
if she paid for five spans of lace fabric
she had at least ten,
and if the price list showed cotton at so many cents a yard,
for her it was paid with a smile
so that in the end
Miss Wolf understood,
why—let it be spelled out clearly—
a head does not feel love,
but understands it.
And she was happy to have understood.
So she allowed
Mr. Lehman
from now on
to call her süsser.
There.
This in effect is where the problem began.
For from that moment
in theory
two süssers
were breathing
on planet Earth
arranged
geographically
one in Alabama
and one in Bavaria
covering the whole planisphere.
Henry said nothing to his American süsser.
And he said nothing either to his Bavarian süsser,
and curious indeed
was the fate
of the most affectionate greetings
that traveled
for four years
in every letter
across planet Earth
to Fräulein Bertha Singer:
for on account of his being a head
and therefore by nature a contorted soul,
Heyum Lehmann, now Henry,
suddenly embarked
on writing to Bertha herself,
and the more he wanted to tell her the truth,
the more he was struck with fear,
prompting him
—in writing—
to send loving kisses
and tender embraces
and sweet caresses
and promises
and fond wishes
and every tenderness
without revealing to his süsser that
to Rimpar
—he felt—
he would never return.
But how could he tell her?
Alone and abandoned
on the other side of the planet:
she might perhaps kill herself
if he refused her.
The cadaverous Bertha,
for her part,
reacted with surprise
on seeing herself inundated
with all that rapture.
At first she hesitated.
Then
through who-knows-what mysteries of womankind
she was unexpectedly overcome:
the American outpourings of her Heyum
were answered
with the Bavarian outpourings of süsser Singer,
and the whole Atlantic Ocean
was spread with
tons and tons
of treacle.
Fortunately Alabama and Germany
are so far apart
that if it is day here it is night there
and where the sun shines darkness falls.
Just as well.
For in this whole exchange
of loving ardor
Henry made no mention of his Rosa
but Bertha too
made no mention of her own secret:
how could she be blamed, after all,
if after four years of
most affectionate greetings
a local doctor
with the face of a child
had seized her at the gate of Valhalla?
How could she be blamed
if by dint of treating her body
sweet Schausser with the curly hair
had touched her soul?
She had fallen in love with the doctor.
Requited, moreover,
to such an extent
that the visits and consultations
exceeded
by far
the worst tuberculosis.
But how could she tell him
about that Heyum living far away
who was now sending her
all that affection?
Alone and abandoned
on the other side of the planet
he might perhaps kill himself,
if she rejected him.
So that
love letters
furrowed the ocean
back and forth
for more than a year.
It was the cattle dealer
who put things straight,
as soon as a doubt arose,
as soon as he noted that Bertha
certainly
for quite some time
was much much better
even though Doctor Schausser
was shaking his head just the same
increasing the frequency of bloodletting.
He thought therefore
that such a doubt
might urge his son
to return to the stable,
once and for all
and he wrote the fateful note:
“THOSE WHO LEAVE THE NEST TOO LONG
CANNOT THEN COMPLAIN . . . EVERY MATE GROWS COLD.
HOPING YOU TAKE HEED, YOUR FATHER.”
Never was a paternal message
received
with such joy:
how splendid
marvelous
that a mate should grow cold
and should warm herself!
Let süsser Bertha tend her own nest!
And süsser Rosa?
She would have her American wedding!
On that day, a bright sun
shone over Montgomery,
a thousand miles away from the chill of Bavaria:
the shop flourished,
the cotton was first choice
the reduced prices drew customers
and
not far from Court Square
measurements were being taken
for plans
to build
a Temple.