“She’s too old for work. She’s too slow. I don’t want her.”
They thought that Chertoff was fainting, so ashen and so haggard did his features become. But when he opened his eyes and smiled the iron rod that he held in his hands was seen by all to have been bent almost double. The other time—and oh! how this must have rankled!—was when Gurtman jestingly taunted Chertoff with being enamoured of Babel. For it was true. Chertoff, in addition to his skill as a workman, was an expert mechanic, and was quite valuable in the shop in keeping the sewing machines in repair. He was sitting under a machine with a big screw-driver in his hand when Gurtman, in a burst of pleasantry, asked him if it were true that he loved Babel. For a long time no answer came. Then the screw-driver rolled to the sweater’s feet, crumpled almost into a ball, and Chertoff’s merry voice rang out:
“Of course I love Babel! Who does not?”
And then all laughed—all save Babel, who reddened and frowned, for, with all her poverty and with all the struggle for existence that had been her lot since she was old enough to tread a pedal, Babel was a sensitive creature, and did not like to hear her name flung to and fro in the sweatshop. Was Babel pretty? “When a girl has lovely eyes,” says the Talmud, “it is a token that she is pretty.” Babel had lovely eyes, and must, therefore, have been pretty. Yet what matters it? Chertoff was eating out his heart with vain longing for Babel, suffering all the tortures of unrequited passion, all the agonies that he suffers who yearns with all the strength of his being to possess what he knows can never be his. Is not that the true tragedy of life? So what matters it if Babel be not to your taste or mine? Chertoff loved her.
He had never told Babel that he loved her; never had asked her whether she cared for him. He had spared himself added misery. Content to suffer, he did his best to conceal his hopeless passion, and strove with all his might to lighten the burden of gloom that was the lot of his fellow-workers. He never could understand, however, why the sweater had taken so strong a dislike to him. Surely Gurtman could envy him nothing. Why should a strong, fine-looking man—a rich man, too, as matters went in Hester Street—take pleasure in tormenting an ugly, good-natured cripple? It was strange, yet true. Perhaps it was that Chertoff’s cheery disposition grated upon the brooding, gloomy temperament of the sweater, or perhaps the cripple’s popularity in the sweatshop was an offence in his employer’s eyes, or perhaps it was merely one of those unreasoning antipathies that one man often feels toward another and for which he can give not the slightest explanation. It was an undeniable fact, however, that the sweater hated his hunchback employee, and would never have tolerated him had Chertoff not been so valuable a workman, and, deeming it unprofitable to discharge him, vented his dislike in baiting and tormenting Chertoff whenever an opportunity offered itself. And had it not been for Babel, Chertoff would have gone elsewhere. Hopeless though he knew his longing to be, he could not bring himself to part from her presence.
And so matters went until a summer’s night brought an interruption, and this interruption is the only excuse for this tale. It had been a busy day, and the sweatshop was working late into the night to finish its work. It had been a hot day, too, and men and women were nigh exhausted. The thermometer was ninety-five in the street, but in this room, you know, were four tremendous stoves at full blast to keep the irons hot. And the machines had been roaring almost since daybreak, and the men and women were pale and weary and half suffocated. Chertoff had been watching Babel anxiously for nearly an hour. She had lost her pallor and her face had become slightly flushed, which is a bad sign in a sweatshop. He feared the strain was becoming too great, and the thoughts that crowded one upon another in his wearied brain were beginning to daze him. He made a heroic effort.
“Come, Babel,” he said, “if you will stop work and listen I’ll sing that song you like.”
“Sing it! Sing it!” cried fifty voices, although no one looked up.
“Not unless Babel stops working,” said Chertoff, smiling.
“Stop working, Babel! Stop working! We want a song!” they all cried. So Babel stopped working and, with a grateful nod to Chertoff, folded her hands in her lap and settled herself comfortably in her chair and fastened her eyes upon the door that led into the rear room. Gurtman was in this rear room filling the benzine cans.