man, but he had the legs of a spider, and quickly blocked the way again with the tseduke box.
“Listen, friend, anyone who isn’t getting from the fund has to give to it. That’s how it works. Now, you look like a fellow who could spare a few kreuzers so the poor and destitute can have matzoh on Pesach. Maybe even a couple dalers.”
I reached into my pockets. A merchant of furs and pelts had leaned out of his shop to watch, and it wouldn’t look good for the new shammes to brush off the matzoh fund on Erev Pesach . I held out a pair of copper coins that seemed to get lost in my suddenly huge hands.
“I only have a couple of groshn .”
“A couple of what?” said the little man, staring at the strange Polish coins.
“I don’t have any Bohemian money yet.”
“Not even a few pfennigs? What kind of cheapskate are you, anyway?”
“It’s all I have. You want it or not?”
“Listen, Reb Ployne , Mr. Whoever-You-Are, you’re in Prague now, and we use pfennigs, kreuzers, and dalers—”
A voice from the street called out, “Hey, Meyer, take it easy. He’s with us. He’s new to the job.”
My rescuer came toward us and greeted the little man with a slap on the shoulder. He had wavy reddish-brown hair, an easy smile, and a nose that had been flattened in a couple of close encounters with the flying fist of fate.
“He’s with you, huh?” said Meyer, appraising me from head to foot. “Where you from?”
“Slonim.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“ East Poland .”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well, it’s pretty far from here. It used to be part of Lithuania .”
“So you’re a Litvak! No wonder.”
“No wonder what?”
“A Litvak is so clever he repents before he sins,” said Meyer, repeating a bit of folk wisdom. “Fine, keep your groschen, smart boy.”
Before I could reply, Meyer skittered away on his spidery legs, drawn to prey with heavier pockets, rattling the tseduke box and chanting, “Charity saves from death, charity saves from death.”
I said, “Thanks for rescuing me from the valley of She’ol .”
“Who, Meyer? More like a bump in the road. Besides, we’ve got to stick together, right, brother?”
The red-haired man said his name was Markas Kral, shammes at the Pinkas Shul.
“I should know where that is,” I said.
“Kleine Pinkasgasse, on the other side of the cemetery from the Klaus Shul.”
I nodded. I had seen the Pinkas Shul’s peaked roof looming like the prow of a ship over a sea of crooked headstones.
“How’s the rabbi on your watch?”
“Rabbi Epstein? He’s all right. Maybe a little too by-the-book sometimes, but what do you want? That’s the job.”
“I know what you mean. Who are the three other shammeses besides us?”
“Well, there’s Avrom Khayim, who handles the Klaus Shul and splits the shift at the Old-New Shul with Abraham Ben-Zakhariah, and there’s Saul Ungar, who covers the High Shul.”
“How reliable are they in a crisis?”
“ Vi a toytn bankes . Avrom Khayim’s too old to do any of the heavy work, Ben-Zakhariah acts like he’s too much of a scholar to get down on his knees and scrub the floor, and the Hungarian’s all mouth and no action. He’ll talk your ear off for a week before getting
“Listen, friend, anyone who isn’t getting from the fund has to give to it. That’s how it works. Now, you look like a fellow who could spare a few kreuzers so the poor and destitute can have matzoh on Pesach. Maybe even a couple dalers.”
I reached into my pockets. A merchant of furs and pelts had leaned out of his shop to watch, and it wouldn’t look good for the new shammes to brush off the matzoh fund on Erev Pesach . I held out a pair of copper coins that seemed to get lost in my suddenly huge hands.
“I only have a couple of groshn .”
“A couple of what?” said the little man, staring at the strange Polish coins.
“I don’t have any Bohemian money yet.”
“Not even a few pfennigs? What kind of cheapskate are you, anyway?”
“It’s all I have. You want it or not?”
“Listen, Reb Ployne , Mr. Whoever-You-Are, you’re in Prague now, and we use pfennigs, kreuzers, and dalers—”
A voice from the street called out, “Hey, Meyer, take it easy. He’s with us. He’s new to the job.”
My rescuer came toward us and greeted the little man with a slap on the shoulder. He had wavy reddish-brown hair, an easy smile, and a nose that had been flattened in a couple of close encounters with the flying fist of fate.
“He’s with you, huh?” said Meyer, appraising me from head to foot. “Where you from?”
“Slonim.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“ East Poland .”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well, it’s pretty far from here. It used to be part of Lithuania .”
“So you’re a Litvak! No wonder.”
“No wonder what?”
“A Litvak is so clever he repents before he sins,” said Meyer, repeating a bit of folk wisdom. “Fine, keep your groschen, smart boy.”
Before I could reply, Meyer skittered away on his spidery legs, drawn to prey with heavier pockets, rattling the tseduke box and chanting, “Charity saves from death, charity saves from death.”
I said, “Thanks for rescuing me from the valley of She’ol .”
“Who, Meyer? More like a bump in the road. Besides, we’ve got to stick together, right, brother?”
The red-haired man said his name was Markas Kral, shammes at the Pinkas Shul.
“I should know where that is,” I said.
“Kleine Pinkasgasse, on the other side of the cemetery from the Klaus Shul.”
I nodded. I had seen the Pinkas Shul’s peaked roof looming like the prow of a ship over a sea of crooked headstones.
“How’s the rabbi on your watch?”
“Rabbi Epstein? He’s all right. Maybe a little too by-the-book sometimes, but what do you want? That’s the job.”
“I know what you mean. Who are the three other shammeses besides us?”
“Well, there’s Avrom Khayim, who handles the Klaus Shul and splits the shift at the Old-New Shul with Abraham Ben-Zakhariah, and there’s Saul Ungar, who covers the High Shul.”
“How reliable are they in a crisis?”
“ Vi a toytn bankes . Avrom Khayim’s too old to do any of the heavy work, Ben-Zakhariah acts like he’s too much of a scholar to get down on his knees and scrub the floor, and the Hungarian’s all mouth and no action. He’ll talk your ear off for a week before getting
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