The Complete Works of Isaac Babel Reprint Edition by Isaac Babel, Nathalie Babel, Peter Constantine (17 page)

“Not yet!” Kolya yelled back. (The thing is, the telegraph pole could be toppled when push came to shove.)

A cart rolled slowly into the alley and pulled up in front of the store. Kolya thought the police were on their way, and his heart tore itself to shreds, because he really hated the idea of the deal going sour.

“Motya!” he yelled. “When I fire my gun, the pole topples!”

“Understood!”

Kolya Shtift went back into the store, and all his helpers followed him. They lined up against the wall and drew their revolvers. Ten eyes and five revolvers were trained on the door, and outside there was the booby-trapped telegraph pole. The youths were bristling with impatience.

“Scram, you cops, you!” one of the eager youths hissed. “Scram or we’ll finish you off!”

“Shut up!” Benya Krik growled, jumping down from the loft. “Where d’you see cops, you lunkhead? Its me, the King!”

A bit more and there would have been trouble. Benya knocked Shtift down and snatched the revolver from his hands. Men started descending from the loft like rain. You couldn’t tell who was who in the darkness.

“Ha! Interesting!” Kolya shouted. “So now Benya is out to kill me!”

It was the first time in his life that the King had been mistaken for a policeman. This was worth a good laugh. The gangsters laughed out loud. They turned on their flashlights, splitting their sides with laughter, rolling on the floor, gasping for air.

Only the King did not laugh.

“They will be saying in Odessa,” he began in a serious tone, “in Odessa they will be saying the King was tempted by his friend’s earnings.”

“They will say it only once,” Shtift said. “No one will dare say it twice.”

“Kolya,” the King continued in a solemn, quiet voice. “Do you believe me, Kolya?”

And here the gangsters stopped laughing. Each of them was holding a burning lantern, but laughter wormed its way out of the Justice store.

“What do you want me to believe you about, King?”

“Do you believe me, Kolya, that I had nothing to do with all of this?”

And the King sat down sadly on a chair, covered his eyes with a dusty sleeve, and began to cry. This was how proud this man was, he should burn in hell! And all the gangsters, each and every one of them, saw their King crying because his pride was hurt.

Then the two men stood opposite each other. Benya stood, and Shtift stood. They apologized to each other, they kissed each other on the lips, and they shook hands with such force that it looked as if they were trying to tear each other’s arms off. Dawn was already beginning to blink its bleary eye, Motya had already left for the police station to sign out, two full carts had hauled off what had once been known as the Justice Cooperative Store, while the King and Kolya were still distraught, still bowing to each other, still throwing their arms around each others necks, kissing each other tenderly like drunks.

Who was Fate hunting down that morning? Fate was hunting down me, Zudechkis, and Fate cornered me.

“Kolya!” the King finally said. “Who arranged for you to come here to the Justice?”

“Zudechkis. What about you, Benya? Who had you come here?”

“Zudechkis!”

“Benya!” Kolya exclaimed. “Is he to be left alive?”

“Most definitely not,” Benya said, and he turned to one-eyed Stern, who was chuckling in a corner because the two of us dont see eye to eye. “Froim! You go order a brocaded coffin, and I’ll go over to Zudechkis. And you, Kolya, once you’ve started something you have to finish it, which is why my wife and I would like to cordially invite you to visit us in our home in the morning, to partake of breakfast with us and our family.”

At five o’clock in the morning—or no, it must have been four, and then again, maybe it wasn’t even four yet—the King entered my bedroom, grabbed me, if you will pardon the expression, by my back, dragged me out of bed, laid me down on the floor, and placed his foot on my nose. Hearing various sounds and so on, my wife jumped out of bed and asked Benya, “Monsieur Krik, why have you taken umbrage at my Zudechkis?”

“What do you mean, why’?” Benya said, without removing his foot from the bridge of my nose, and tears began to trickle from his eyes. “He has cast a shadow on my name, he has disgraced me before my companions, you can bid him farewell, Madam Zudechkis, because my honor is more important to me than my happiness, which is why he cannot live!”

Continuing to cry, he began stomping on me. My wife, seeing that I was quite distressed, started yelling. This occurred at four-thirty, but she didnt finish with Benya until around eight. She let him have it— oy!—how she let him have it! It was a joy to behold!

“Why are you angry at my Zudechkis?” she shouted, standing on the bed, while I, writhing on the floor, looked up at her with admiration. “Why beat up my Zudechkis? Why? Because he wanted to feed nine little hungry fledglings? You—ha!—you’re so very grand! The King! The son-in-law of a rich man, rich yourself, and your father rich too! You are a man with the world at your feet! What is one bungled deal for Benchik, when next week will bring seven successful ones? How dare you beat my Zudechkis! How dare you!”

She saved my life.

The children woke up and began yelling in unison with my wife. Benya still ruined as much of my health as he knew he needed to ruin. He left two hundred rubles for my doctors bill, and walked out. I was taken to the Jewish hospital. On Sunday I was dying, on Monday I felt better, on Tuesday I took a turn for the worse.

This is my first story. Who was to blame, and what was the reason? Was Benya really to blame? Let us not try to pull the wool over each others eyes. There is no other like Benya the King! He stamps out lies in his quest for justice—justice in parentheses as well as justice without parentheses. But what are you to do when everyone else is as unruffled as a pickled fish? The others don’t care for justice, and don’t look for it, which is even worse!

I recovered—escaping from Benya’s hands only to fall into Lyubka’s! I have told you about Benya, and I will tell you about Lyubka Shneiweis. But let us stop here. Then I can say I put the period where it belongs.

I was the one who began.

“Reb Arye-Leib,” I said to the old man. “Lets talk about Benya Krik. Lets talk about his lightning-quick beginning and his terrible end. Three shadows block the path of my thoughts. There is Froim Grach. The steel of his actions—doesn’t it bear comparison to the power of the King? There is Kolka Pakovsky. The rage of that man had everything it takes to rule. And could not Chaim Drong tell when a star was on the rise? So why was Benya Krik the only one to climb to the top of the ladder while everyone else was clinging to the shaky rungs below?”

Reb Arye-Leib remained silent as he sat on the cemetery wall. Before us stretched the green calm of the graves. A man thirsting for an answer must stock up with patience. A man in possession of facts can afford to carry himself with aplomb. That is why Arye-Leib remained silent as he sat on the cemetery wall. Finally he began his tale:

“Why him? Why not the others, you want to know? Well then, forget for a while that you have glasses on your nose and autumn in your heart. Forget that you pick fights from behind your desk and stutter when you are out in the world! Imagine for a moment that you pick fights in town squares and stutter only among papers. You are a tiger, you are a lion, you are a cat. You can spend the night with a Russian woman, and the Russian woman will be satisfied by you. You are twenty-five years old. If the sky and the earth had rings attached to them, you would grab these rings and pull the sky down to the earth. And your papa is the carter Mendel Krik. What does a papa like him think about? All he thinks about is downing a nice shot of vodka, slugging someone in their ugly mug, and about his horses—nothing else. You want to live, but he makes you die twenty times a day. What would you have done if you were in Benya Kriks shoes? You wouldn’t have done a thing! But he did. Because he is the King, while you only thumb your nose at people when their back is turned!

“He, Benchik, went to Froim Grach, who even back then peered at the world with only one eye and was just what he is now. And Benya told Froim, ‘Take me on. I want to come on board your ship. The ship I end up on will do well by me.’

“Grach asked him, ‘Who’re you, where d’you come from, what’s your bread and butter?’

“‘Try me, Froim,’ Benya answered, ‘and let’s stop wasting time spreading kasha on the table.’

“ ‘Fine, we won’t waste time spreading kasha on the table,’ Grach said. ‘I’ll try you.’

“And the gangsters called a council together to decide about Benya Krik. I wasn’t at that council, but word has it that they did call together a council. The elder back then was the late Lyovka Bik.

“ ‘Anyone know what’s going on under Benchik’s hat?’ the late Bik asked.

“And one-eyed Grach gave his opinion.

“‘Benya talks little, but he talks with zest. He talks little, but you want that he’ll say more.’

“ ‘If that’s so, we’ll try him out on Tartakovsky,’ the late Bik pronounced.

“ ‘We’ll try him out on Tartakovsky,’ the council decided, and those who still housed a trace of conscience turned red when they heard this decision. Why did they turn red? If you listen, you’ll find out.

“Tartakovsky was known as ‘Yid-and-a-Half’ or ‘Nine-Raids.’ They called him ‘Yid-and-a-Half’ because there wasn’t a single Jew who had as much chutzpah or money as Tartakovsky had. He was taller than the tallest Odessa policeman, and heavier than the fattest Jewess. And they called Tartakovsky ‘Nine-Raids’ because the firm of Lyovka Bik and Company had launched not eight raids and not ten, but exactly nine raids against his business. To Benya, who was not yet King, fell the honor of carrying out the tenth raid on Yid-and-a-Half. When Froim informed Benya of this, Benya said yes, and left, slamming the door behind him. Why did he slam the door? If you listen, you’ll find out.

“Tartakovsky has the soul of a murderer, but he’s one of us. He sprang forth from us. He is our blood. He is our flesh, as if one mama had given birth to us. Half of Odessa works in his stores. Not to mention, his own Moldavankans have given him quite a bit of grief. They abducted him twice and held him for ransom, and once, during a pogrom, they buried him with chanters. The Slobodka
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thugs were beating up Jews on Bolshaya Arnautskaya. Tartakovsky ran away from them and came across the funeral march with chanters on Sofiyskaya Street.

“ ‘Who are they burying with chanters?’ he asked.

“The passersby told him that Tartakovsky was being buried. The procession marched to the Slobodka Cemetery. Then our boys yanked a machine gun out of the coffin and started shooting at the Slobodka thugs. But Yid-and-a-Half had not foreseen this. Yid-and-a-Half got the fright of his life. What boss in his place would not have been frightened?

“A tenth raid on a man who had already been buried once was a crass deed. Benya, who back then wasn’t yet the King, knew this better than anyone else. But he said yes to Grach and on that very same day wrote Tartakovsky a letter, typical of those letters:

Most esteemed Rubin Osipovich,

I would be grateful if by the Sabbath you could place by the rainwater barrel a ..., and so on. Should you choose to refuse, which you have opted to do lately, a great disappointment in your family life awaits you.

Respectfully yours,

Ben Zion Krik

“Tartakovsky, not one to dither, was quick to answer:

Benya,

If you were an idiot, I would write you as to an idiot. But from what I know of you, you aren’t one, and may the Lord prevent me from changing my mind. You, as is plain to see, are acting like a boy.

Is it possible that you are not aware that this year the crop in Argentina has been so good that we can stand on our heads but we still cant unload our wheat? And I swear to you on a stack of Bibles that I’m sick and tired of having to eat such a bitter crust of bread and witness such trouble after having worked all my life like the lowliest carter. And what do I have to show for my life sentence of hard labor? Ulcers, sores, worries, and no sleep! Drop your foolish thoughts, Benya.

Your friend, a far better one than you realize, Rubin Tartakovsky

“Yid-and-a-Half had done his part. He had written a letter. But the mail didnt deliver it to the right address. Getting no answer, Benya became angry. The following day he turned up at Tartakovsky s office with four friends. Four masked youths with revolvers burst into the room. “ ‘Hands up!’ they shouted, waving their pistols.

“‘Not so loud, Solomon!’ Benya told one of the youths, who was yelling louder than the rest. ‘Dont get so jumpy on the job!’ and he turned to the shop assistant, who was white as death and yellow as clay, and asked him:

“ ‘Is Yid-and-a-Half in the factory?’

“‘He’s not in the factory/ said the shop assistant, whose family name was Muginshtein, his first name Josif, and who was the unmarried son of Aunt Pesya, the chicken seller on Seredinskaya Square.

“‘So who’s in charge when the boss is out?’ they asked poor Muginshtein.

“ ‘I’m in charge when the boss is out/ the shop assistant said, green as green grass.

“‘In that case, with God’s help, please open the safe!’ Benya ordered, and a three-act opera began.

“Nervous Solomon stuffed money, papers, watches, and jewelry into a suitcase—the late Josif Muginshtein stood in front of him with his hands in the air, while Benya told stories from the life of the Jewish people.

“‘Well, ha! If he likes playing Rothschild/ Benya said about Tartakovsky, ‘then let him roast in hell! I ask you, Muginshtein, as one asks a friend: he gets my business letter—so how come he cant take a five-kopeck tram to come visit me at home, drink a shot of vodka with my family, and eat what God has seen fit to send us? What stopped him from baring his soul to me? Couldn’t he have said—Benya, you know, such and such, but heres my balance sheet, just give me a couple of days to catch my breath, to get things rolling—don’t you think I’d have understood? Pigs at a trough might not see eye to eye, but there is no reason why two grown men can’t! Do you see what I’m saying, Muginshtein?’