I push open the door to the Workman’s Club this morning just as Mr. Diemschutz is emptying his tea cup. “Asher, you’re here, good.” He picks up one of the crates of jewelry sitting on a bench and motions for me to grab the other one. “Let’s see how they took care of Polly in our absence.”
We don’t talk much as we walk down Berner Street. Mr. Diemschutz doesn’t offer anything about the inquest, and though I’m dying to know what I missed, I don’t know if it’s okay to ask. The only boss I’ve had in my real life is my lawn-mowing gig with old Mrs. Gupta, and she is definitely not the type you’d ask a sensitive question. I decide to keep my mouth shut.
After a couple of blocks, we turn into a place called George Yard, where the ramshackle wooden horse stables come into view. I guess this is where Asher—the real Asher—likes to hang out on Sundays. Not me. At least, not yet.
“What day is it today, Asher?” Mr. Diemschutz asks.
“Wednesday, sir.”
“Right, Mitre Square then. Let’s hope the bad news hasn’t dampened business there.”
Mr. Diemschutz didn’t need to worry. The square is thrumming with shoppers and hawkers, a congested, noisy horde of people and wares. Women carrying wicker baskets edge between carts and wheelbarrows that brim with vegetables, cloths, trinkets, and, in our case, cheap jewelry. Gaggles of kiddies dart in and out of the fray. A constable strolls by every so often, and so does an orange alley cat. The air smells like roasting nuts and fried fish and something else, something I eventually learn is a dish called pickled whelks, whatever that is.
“All right then.” Mr. Diemschutz parks Polly and the cart in between a rag seller and a fruit cart. “Let’s see if we can make up for lost time.”
“Looks busy as ever,” I say, even though I shouldn’t know how busy it usually is here. I jump down and retrieve the jewelry crates.
Over the next few hours, we manage to sell several pieces, and my boss seems pleased. As for me, I’m mostly bored, but I remind myself it could be worse—I could be apprenticing for a leech collector or a sewer cleaner, after all.
When the bells toll one, Mr. Diemschutz tucks into the knish he brought along, and I pull out the crust of bread and chunk of cheese I packed. I spend the lull trying to spot the wall across the street where the chalk graffiti used to be, but I can’t get a clear view.
After lunch, Mr. Diemschutz dusts off his hands and announces, “Look here, Asher, I have to see a few suppliers on Commercial Street. I think you’re ready to run the show for a bit. What do you say?”
“Me? I, um…” Shoot, I should’ve paid more attention to how Mr. Diemschutz handled the cash.
“You’ll be fine.” He puts on his top hat and straightens his necktie. “You know just about everything there is to know by now.”
“If you think so, sir.”
“I’ll be back by five.”
And I actually am fine doing this alone. There’s not much to it, as far as I can see. Just waiting around for someone to like one of the trinkets badly enough to part with her pennies. Watching out for sticky fingers. Making sure no one bothers Polly.
In the late afternoon, something starts to change, though. I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but the mood in the square shifts somehow, and I start to feel uneasy. Maybe it’s because more people are showing up, which is strange because this is the time of day when things should be winding down.
“How much is this?” a tired-looking woman asks, holding up an enamel brooch.
“Sixpence,” I tell her.
“Don’t suppose you’d let it go for three or four.”
“I would if I could, ma’am.”
She studies the pin, sighs, puts it down. “I’ll ponder it while I shop then.” She moves on, and I know she won’t be back. But I’m not thinking about a lost sale. I’m thinking, Does this woman sense what I sense, that something is wrong around here? Could it just be me?
No, it couldn’t.
Suddenly a voice rises up from the other side of the square. More voices join in. They’re shouting something in unison, but I can’t make it out. Polly starts to fidget, so I step over to her while I strain to hear. “Shhh now,” I whisper to the pony. “I got you, girl.”
Now the jumble of voices resolves into words. Angry words. Hateful words. I won’t let myself believe it at first. I tell myself they’re saying something about booze. But no, that’s not it. The word is Jews. They’re bellowing, “Down with the Jews!”
The rest of the square goes mute. A bunch of men—maybe a dozen of them—march around the square bellowing their insults. Then the onlookers join in—boys, women, children too young to know what they’re saying. I close up the jewelry cart, but the crowd is too thick for escape.
Suddenly someone is talking at me directly. “Whatsa matter?” a husky voice spits from a few feet away. “Afraid to face your judgment?”
It’s a kid about my age, but taller and broader, arms crossed. Two of his friends emerge from the crowd and plant themselves at his side. One of them has the sooty face of a chimney sweep. The other one, younger and barefoot, has a cigarette hanging off his lip. I move around from behind the cart and stand in front of the jewelry crates in some stupid protective stance.
Across the square, the mob chants, “It was a Jew! No Englishman did it!”
Closer by, the ringleader kid takes a step toward me. “Yellow belly, ain’tcha?”
“I’m not scared,” I answer. “I’m just thinking.”
The leader smirks. His sidekicks stare me down. “Go on, Lipski,” the chimney sweep dares me. “Tell us what you’re thinking.”
“I was thinking how it’s kind of funny.” I take in a breath. “I don’t know what this slum has more of, people or rats. But I do know which group you belong to.”
As soon as I get the words out, I know what an idiot move it was. Verbal sparring with a bunch of roughs? Not my finest moment. And I’m about to pay for it. Maybe I’m the person who’s going to die if I don’t prevent it.
The chimney sweep starts forward, fists clenched. The smoker digs his bare toes into the ground and lets the cigarette fall out of his mouth, grunting some threat I can’t make out. The ringleader tells them, “Stand back, mates. He’s mine.”
I couldn’t run even if I wanted to, which I do want to. But I have Mr. Diemschutz’s wares to protect. I have my job to protect. And, yeah, I guess I have my pride to protect too. So I ball up my hands and raise them in a pointless effort to shield my face. The leader is coming my way.
“Hoy, Ralph!” a man’s voice shouts from behind me. The ringleader looks over my shoulder. “Come on,” the man hollers, “we need you for the big show.”
The ringleader—Ralph—bursts into a crooked grin. “Guess this is your lucky day, Lipski,” he tells me. “Come on, mates!”
With that, he and his two accomplices dart past me to join the man. I finally lower my hands and pivot to see where they’re going. But Ralph is wrong—this is not my lucky day. Just as I turn around, a hawker is shoving his cart along in an escape attempt. I take the corner of the cart on the side of my face, hard.
Fuzzy stars burst across the afternoon sky, and the coppery taste of blood dribbles into my mouth. Now there’s a strange sound in my ear, but I don’t think it’s from this collision. No, it’s coming from the mob.
The daytime stars follow my gaze across the square, making it hard to see. Finally, I zero in on a clump of men and boys carrying something over their heads. No, not something—someone. No, that’s not right either. I blink and try again.
There, now I see. It’s a mannequin dressed up to look like one of the Ripper’s victims. She’s wearing a dress stained with bright red splotches. Something like cherry jelly trickles from her lips. Her neck is bent at an odd angle. The mob shouts, “It was a Jew! It was a Jew! It was a Jew!”
***
“Yes, I’m sure I’m all right,” I tell Mum as she holds a damp rag to my jaw. We’re sitting at our table—well, I’m sitting, and she’s constantly jumping up to see if the swelling is going down.
“When did Mr. Diemschutz finally show up?” She wrings out a fresh rag in the wash basin.
“Five o’clock, just when he said he would.”
She shakes her head.
“It’s not his fault, Mum. He didn’t know this was going to happen.”
“No, but I should have.”
I take the rag from her. “How do you figure that?”
“I know more of the world, of people, than you and him put together.”
I guess she’s right—about me, anyway. I never knew the Jew-haters used the Ripper spree as an excuse. Most of what I know is from that one Unsolved Mysteries episode, which isn’t much, just that the murders happened, that the Ripper got away, and that no one ever even figured out who he was.
“I cannot believe I let you go to Mitre Square so soon after.” Mum rubs her forehead, then checks mine for fever. “I should have seen this coming. I should have.”
“The police were the ones who should’ve seen it coming.” I feel the anger rise inside me like fireworks. “They should’ve had more cops on the beat.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know whose side the police are on these days. I guess I should just be glad you kept all your teeth.”
I run my tongue over the inside of my bruised cheek and listen for sounds upstairs, for signs of Mitzy. Lowering the rag, I tear the crust off the slice of buttered bread in front of me. It hurts to chew, so I pop a small piece of the soft part into my mouth and wait for it to dissolve. What I really want is something cold, something like ice chips, but I’ll have to settle for a cool cloth and a room-temperature lump of bread.
Now someone is knocking at the door. Great, what now? More cops? I start to get up, but Mum is already on her way. “Mr. Diemschutz, good evening,” she greets him.
Somehow I know Mr. Diemschutz has never dropped in on us before. This can’t be good. He was so quiet on the way home from Mitre Square, too. Maybe he didn’t like the way I handled—or failed to handle—things today. Maybe he’s here to fire me. Or maybe he’s going to give up the jewelry business, now that it’s dangerous. Crap. I’m sure he doesn’t pay me much, but whatever the wage is, I know Mum counts on it.
“Good evening,” he says.
She steps aside from the door. “Come in, please.”
Mr. Diemschutz walks into the room, carrying something wrapped in newspaper. His eyes go straight to me, but he doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t say anything, just takes off his hat.
“Can I help you with something?” Mum asks.
“Hmm? Oh yes, yes. My Shaina, she made this for you. She hopes it will make Asher feel a little better. So do I.” He hands Mum the package.
She tears off the paper, and the room fills with the scents of lemon and vanilla. “A sponge cake, how very kind. Please give her our thanks.”
“I should not have left your boy alone at the square.” He runs his hand over his black hair. “Asher, if you aren’t well enough to work tomorrow…”
Wait, he’s not firing me. He’s apologizing.
“I’ll be fine. I am fine.” I walk over and extend my hand.
Mr. Diemschutz’s hand meets my hand, but his eyes won’t meet my eyes. “We stick together now. You, me, and Polly.”
“See you in the morning, sir.”
“I must be getting back to the club now.” He puts his hat back on. “Good night to you both.”
Good night? Ha. Not only can’t I escape this place—I can barely survive it.