Such A Question
A short Jewish tale
Israel Abraham Kasikov, proud Russian, proud American, proud orthodox Jew and bespoke tailor in the city of New York fought to retain humility. His spirit soared as the husky voice of the cantor swirled through the synagogue. His soul fought to burst from it’s frail, stooped body and merge with the glorious, burnished notes of the song. Yet he reined in the euphoria lest God frown upon this selfish indulgence.
Oh the joy of this moment, he thought. How hard not to swell with pride, at the overwhelming sense of completeness. His resonant voice merged with those of the nodding men around him and in unison they wove an oral tapestry rich and heavy with dusty tradition. This sweet intensity of faith brought the familiar warmth that had eased his suffering on an often-bitter journey through life.
From the cold, cruel Steppes of Russia he had fled the cold, cruel heart of Stalin. A refugee, lost and wandering, resolutely staring west, past eyes that spilled contempt and hate. With strong arms he shepherded his cherished family, resolutely guiding, until one gray, autumn day, the hand of liberty beckoned them to a new home.
Though the streets of New York could match the bleakness of their former home, they survived, even prospered. Wealth and stature grew in a tight knit society. His skill with scissors and cloth quickly garnered a reputation that brought elegant customers to the door. A Kasikov suit became the hallmark of a successful businessman in the Lower East Side. Yet Israel Abraham remained humble. He shared his good fortune generously with family and community. As advancing years silvered his hair and drained the bulk from his body, he became an icon of quiet respectability in his adopted country.
Time had left him a widower. The rooms no longer echoed to the frantic clamor of family life. Long ago the last son had crushed the cloth-wrapped glass beneath his heel. The last daughter had solemnly kissed his forehead and left to rule a home of her own. Now the house was silent, not a bad thing for a man who who felt himself drawing closer to the time when he must meet his God.
He was not neglected. There was still a small but loyal clientele to satisfy. Still grandchildren to amuse and guide. Though his bed was now warmed only with fond memories, no sadness clouded his life. The reminiscences were too heady to provoke regret.
The door to the temple swung open bringing new world to old. Israel adjusted his hat, straightened the raincoat on his shoulders and walked serenely down to the street. Strengthened by the words of his faith, infused and replenished by the blood of tradition, he walked immune to the chill drizzle that slicked the busy street. His mind still rang with ancient songs, their echo refused to fade. He surrendered to the melodic memory, softly, joyfully singing.
He should have seen the light but his eyes were perhaps dazzled by a stronger one. The scream of tires drowned the song in his head and before he could focus on the car, the ground rose to strike his cheek. The car had not been moving fast, but the impact of both fender and asphalt knocked the breath from him and he could only lie there, half-stunned and fighting for breath.
The clamor of horns filled the air, followed by the frantic slam of car doors. Feet splashed wetly, as people ran to to Israel’s side. He looked up to see a melange of curious, concerned faces. Feebly he raised a hand and managed a faint “OK, OK, I’m fine. Alive, nothing broken. Ah, so silly of me.” He tried to rise but a stab of pain forced him back. Helpless, he lay in the mud thinking only of how he would ever clean the stains from his coat.
A whistle blew and the crowd parted to allow the policeman through. ‘Anyone call an ambulance?’ He demanded. Two voices replied and the policeman nodded his head in approval. “OK now, let’s give him some space.”
The crowd pulled back and Constable Reilly knelt to perform a cursory examination. A wince of pain told him the hip was hurt. The scrape to the cheek looked nasty but there was little blood. Amazing the old fella wasn’t killed. He seemed alert. Responded to questions, good color. The poor old man was even apologizing for all the trouble he caused. It would be a few more minutes before the ambulance arrived, so Reilly, peeled the cape from his shoulders and draped it over the prone figure.
Israel looked up into the face of his helper. Such kind eyes, he thought. He tried to refuse, but the policeman brushed aside his protest. Reilly then took off his jacket and rolled it into a pillow. With the gentle touch of a father, he lifted the old man’s head and cradled it back into the dark blue wool. “Are you comfortable old timer?”
Israel frowned for a second, puzzled. He looked questioningly into Reilly’s eyes. What a thing to ask! Thinking him hard of hearing the policeman repeated the words, louder.
“I… said… are… you… comfortable… “
Israel Abraham Kasikov frowned again, thought for a moment, and then managed a faint shrug,
“I make a living.”