The Cottoncrest Curse: A Novel

Chapter 5

19 Chapter 5 As he pushed his cart down the road toward the bayou, Jake felt very satisfied. The last two days had gone better than he expected. Why, just this morning Mrs. Brady not only had gotten three blades sharpened and traded a nice raccoon skin for two yards of gingham; she also had given him a third down in cash on the Freimer knife. That covered his cost of the knife; the remaining payments would be pure profit. It also guaranteed two more trips to Mrs. Brady’s, and each time she undoubtedly would purchase something else. That’s the way to do it. Honik oifen tsung. Honey on the tongue. That’s what Uncle Avram used to tell him in Yiddish in the tailor shop. Make the customer happy, and the customer will make you happy. Jake looked up at the sky—about another hour until noon. If he kept up this pace, he’d hit the bayou, head south, and be in Lamou by four, leaving plenty of time to do some selling and some trading. Although there were long walks between stops, Jake far preferred this rural and untamed country to the docks at Hamburg and Paris or the East Side of New York. It reminded him, in some strange way, of home. Of course, there was no snow, no mountains, no fir trees, and no Jews out here. Yet it was just like what his father and Uncle Avram had wanted their village to be. A quiet place, where you could raise a family , where you could smell the fresh air and own land, where you could be free from looking over your shoulder in fear, free from wondering whether the Cossack you fitted for a new shirt today would come stone you tonight, free from wondering whether the Czar would take your children away and destroy your family and your religion. This Louisiana had many things that his father and Uncle Avram would appreciate. Here you could earn a living. Here you could buy 20 land. Here there was no one to tell you that Jews weren’t allowed to do this or to do that. Of course, out in this countryside, unlike in New York or even in New Orleans, they had never seen a Jew. That meant that Jake could do anything he wanted, could be just like anyone else. He wasn’t Yaakov the Jew. He was Jake Gold, the Peddler Man. Jake Gold, a good, short American name. He was just like many others in Louisiana—a man who could speak more than one language, who had come here to make his own way, who would be judged on what he did. Moshe! His brother had not one but two Jewish names. Here in America Moshe could have any name he wanted, but he chose Moshe Goldfarb. With a name like that, you knew he was Jewish before he walked in the door. Of course, Moshe would probably never leave New York a second time, and he was never coming south again. Not now at least, not after what he had been through. Moshe loved New York, however, and he was happy to stay there from now on. Moshe loved the crowds and the bustle. He loved living in his sixth-floor walkup on Mott Street. He loved the nightlong card games and the days filled with trading. He loved being on the streets and being able to conduct business in nothing but Yiddish. Jake remembered the first time he had walked down Mott Street toward the tenement where Moshe lived, where Moshe was going to let him live. It was a Saturday afternoon. Moshe had carried the little bag that contained all of Jake’s belongings, the bag he had bought in Paris before sailing. Moshe had just met him at the ferry that brought Jake from Ellis Island. For three long days, from early in the morning until late in the evening , Moshe had waited at the ferry landing. He had been worried, Moshe had told him as they walked, that Jake would not clear customs, that something would be found wrong, that Jake would be sent back. Moshe had written to him to put a white slip of paper in his hatband and that Moshe would do the same. That way they could spot each other. Jake had no way of contacting Moshe while the customs officials kept him sitting on hard benches...