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I SAAC COHEN sat in his office and looked
angrily out of the window. He was highly an
noyed, and for a reason that seems very trivial
on the surface. It was all because of the phone call
he had just received from Abraham Levy, whom
he hadn’t seen in almost twenty years.
Over in Austria, Isaac and Abe had been the
best of friends. Quite the very best. As a matter
of fact, it was Abe who had given Isaac his first
job and had advanced him sufficient money to
come to America. No question about it; the two
men had been very close. But that, of course, was
many years before.
Things were very different now. Isaac had es
tablished himself in the carpentry business and
was quite a wealthy man. He had many men
working for him and considered himself a rather
important figure in his own New York circle. He
had gone a long way since he said goodby to Abra
ham in that small Austrian town.
The more he thought of that call, the angrier
Isaac became. He knew exactly what would hap
pen. Abraham would talk about the old days and
remind Isaac of the good times they had had to
gether. Good times! Why, those thoughts were
a joke to Isaac now. He was a man of class and
distinction; a popular New Yorker who knew his
Bronx and his Broadway. 1 he past was little
more than a bore.
The phone rang. It was Isaac’s wife. And he
immediately unfolded his grievance to her.
“Maybe I’m foolish,” lie asserted, “but I don’t
know when I ve been so annoyed. V ou don’t know
this Abraham Levy, and you’re not going to. But
lies one of those fellows who likes to remember.
I’m not.”
His wife didn t seem at all concerned.
“'Ehen why bother with him?” she asked.
“When he comes around, you’re just too busy to
see him. People like that are always a nuisance.
Didn’t I meet that Mrs. Katz only last week, and
didn’t she remind me of the time I lived on Riv-
ington Street? It’s terrible that such people should
be.
“Forget about this fellow. Why should he gh
you headaches? Do you owe him anything?”
.Owe him anything? Isaac knew full well 1
did. Why, he even owed Abraham the passaj
money he had used twenty years before. But 1
didn’t like to think about that.
“Of course I don’t owe him anything,” he lie
“But I’ll have to see him. He’ll be here at
minute. After all, I can’t let him believe that su
cess has gone to my head. I only hope lie doesn
ask me for a job of some kind. It would be te
rible to have him around here.”
In an outer office sat Abraham Levy. He h i
just given his name to Mr. Cohen’s secretar
And on his face there was an expression of aw
and wonderment.
It didn’t seem possible that these offices real!
belonged to his old friend. Not to little lsaa
who had never known what it was to have moi
than a few pennies in his pocket. Yet there 1
w’as. Surely there could be no mistake.
Abraham smiled. He was very happy for Isaac
sake. He had always known that the boy possesse
ability, and he had told the entire town that h
old friend would make good in America. Bi
that he would become so successful even Abrahai
never dreamed.
Abraham realized, of course, that there would
be a change in Isaac. He had probably grown
stouter—and he had unquestionably grown wiser.
Abraham remembered that his friend had always
had a very sympathetic nature. And he hoped
that Isaac wouldn’t break down when he learned
that his old pal had lost everything he owned.
He didn’t want to tell Isaac of the terrible mis
fortunes that had befallen him after the war and
he dreaded unfolding the news that his family had
had to borrow the money to send him to America.
But, after all, it had to be done. And if Isaac
did cry a little, it would only make the bond that
much stronger.
Abrah
am
Le
vy s
By MARK HELLINGER
R
©venge
Mark Ilellinger is generally acknowledged
one of the best contemporary story tellers with
a charm all his own that none of his numer
ous imitators ever achieve. If is stories in the
Mirror are read every day with new interest
by hundreds of thousands skeptical New York
ers. He has graciously consented to the publi
cation of this story which is more than mere
fiction. It is a significant footnote to contem
porary Jewish history in this country.—The
Editor.
“Mr. Cohen will see you now,” said the girl.
So Abraham Levy arose and followed her in
side. . . .
Ehe door closed behind the girl. Isaac looked
up from his desk. Abraham’s lips trembled. He
put out his arms.
“Isaac,” he cried. “My old, old friend!”
A smile of the utmost happiness was on his face
as lie took a step forward.
“How are you, Levy?” said Isaac. “Sit down.”
The smile faded. What
words were these, “How are
you, Levy?” Cold words.
Bitterly cold. “Sit down.”
Not even the gesture of a
handshake. Abraham swal
lowed hard. He sat down.
“You look well, Isaac,” he
managed to say. “I am happy
to find you so successful.”
Ehe other man nodded.
“Yes, Levy,” he replied,
“I’ve done rather well since
I saw you last. But let’s not
go into that sort of thing.
I m very busy right now.
What’s on your mind?”
Abraham shifted uneasily
in his chair.
1 spoke to you over the phone about my letter,”
lie stated. ‘‘I sent it to you before I left the other
side. Didn t you get it?”
Isaac shook his head.
I don t think it was called to my attention,”
he announced carelessly. “My secretary handles
••ill the unimportant mail. What did it say?”
Abraham leaned forward.
“Dane " lie said, “please hear what I have to
sat and don t he an K ry with me. I don’t want to
ake up much of your time, but I must talk to you.
l am here now—and you must help me.
I hings have been very bad at home ever since
e war I always managed to get bv somehow
»ntd 1 lost my business. 1 wasn't getting any
t get and carpenter work was very scarce"
1 hen 1 thought of America, and you.
I made up my mind to come over. 1 wrote and
rnrsTuA ’ 'V ' ^ h '»"« <™m vou in
ears, but knew that you were successful and that
>ou would he the same old friend. My family had
to borrow the passage money for me, Isaac and
' ... 0n 1 h' ct " or k I don’t know what I wiil do
1 am a good carpenter. You know that Have
roe? AU K I ask ‘
3 x^r ars ever> - week * s
gone by.”’ 1>aai ” Please ’ For t,le sake of years
The big man made a sudden decision.
these davs VLu'-’ “!> n “‘ P«ting on men
these days. I m laying them off. I don’t need vou
M ark II ellinger
around here at all but I can’t stand tears V
can report for work tomorrow. Uu
“But remember this one thing. y ou 1r „
ploye now and not a friend. 1 don’t „ ™'
memories from you about old times hecause'l
not interested in those things. And if you talk'?
"ryln? ^ ab ° Ut "*• "<>"’< A
Levy 6 ” M ' SS J ° neS ‘ n thC morni "ih Good day.
And Abraham Levy left that office with a ter
rible hate in his heart.
* * *
In the two years that followed, Isaac did mam
lungs to fan that hatred. Just why he acted as
he did I couldn t tell you. Perhaps it was his
great desire for authority or perhaps he felt a great
pride when he looked at Abraham and realized
how he had forged ahead. At any rate, the abuse
never reached an end.
There was the day, for example, when Abraham
had come along just as Isaac and his wife were
getting into their car. Abraham had taken off hi<
hat, and bowed. And Isaac had wheeled suddenly
around.
“Don’t forget your place,” he had cried. "We
don’t need your bows.”
1 here was no occasion for such a remark. Abso
lutely none. Yet, as Paul Preston can tell you.
incidents of a similar nature kept occurring again
and again. Some of them were extremely nasty,
and all of them were grossly insulting. And all for
no apparent reason.
1 here was born in Abraham a great desire for
vengeance. He wanted to even the score so badly
that the thought became something of an obsession
with h im. And even if he had considered murder
ing Isaac, I don’t know whether you could blame
him too strongly.
Here was a man who had approached an old
friend with a simple, childlike faith. He had done
far more for that friend than that friend could
ever hope to do for him. He wanted nothing more
than to slave for those who needed his support—
and, as far as his work was concerned, he was
earning every penny of his salary.
V et he was being abused at all times. Isaac
went out of his way to find fault with the other
man’s work. He never lost an opportunity to to»
in a jibe or a scornful remark. Abraham pleaded
with him once—and only once.
“Why do you treat me as though I were a bad
dog?” he asked. “What have I done to harm \ou.
I am trying my best and serving you as faithful^
as any man in your employ". What is the trouble.
Isaac shrugged his shoulders.
“The trouble is,” he returned scornfully, that
you are a complete fool. I advise you to keep >° ur
mouth shut and to pay" strict attention to your
work. Otherwise, you will have no job.
Ehat was the only satisfaction that Abra am
could receive. And, aside from nursing ^t a
hatred, what could he do about the situation-
he lost his job, what would become of him.
he been able to gaze a short distance into t e
ture, the poor guy might have gambled °n - s0 ^
sort of revenge. But that was denied hirm
contracted a severe case of pneumonia. - 111
three davs he was dead. He died w H a P ra '^
his lips. And that prayer was a pica t(l Tt
even the score with the man he hated.
* * *
The men in the shop did the usw ‘ Hn ^ n ’ on int T
raised as much money as they" cou a ^ L jg
off the few belongings (Please tu
* THE SOUTH! ISRAEL