The Distance Has Grown
The new house stood only five hundred meters from where we had lived before.
The four-story brownstone townhouse was, ironically, built on a layout almost identical to the place Blank—the dead former owner of Mother’s company—had once called home. Even the neighborhood felt the same.
Saturday, March 29, 1918.
Moving day began early at the tenement house. The old, worn furniture would stay behind for the next wave of immigrants; only the smaller odds and ends went down the stairs.
When the wagon was finally loaded, we said our goodbyes to the neighbors.
Aunt Mary, who had looked after Roa for so long, wiped at her eyes, clearly reluctant to see us go.
“Roa, even after you move you still have to come visit sometimes, all right? Auntie will be very sad if you forget her face.”
“How could Roa ever forget Aunt Mary? Especially the cookies you make—they’re the best in the whole world.”
“All right… when Roa comes to play, I’ll bake cookies for sure.”
Leaving a house we had lived in for five years was bittersweet.
“Leo, Marcus. The load’s all packed, so head out first.”
“Okay.”
I didn’t call in any of the Union boys for the move. We didn’t have much, and there was no reason to put our new address on display. Only Leo and Marcus—the two who already knew my home situation well—helped with the relocation.
Once the wagon carrying the tenement furniture had rolled away, our family climbed into another carriage and headed for the townhouse.
A short while later Roa jumped down, planted herself in front of the building, and gaped.
“This is the house Roa’s going to live in from now on?!”
“……Mom’s seeing it for the first time too.”
“Then we have to go up right now, Mom!”
Roa grabbed Mother’s hand and tugged her forward. They hurried past the entrance, up the stairs, and through the wide-open door on the second floor.
“Woooow! It’s big! Super big!”
The living room alone was larger than the entire tenement flat we had left. Six bedrooms, a spacious kitchen and dining table, indoor plumbing, and a real bathtub.
Mother, who had never set foot inside before either, stood frozen in the doorway, eyes darting everywhere. Then she turned to me with a faint smile.
“Do you like it?”
“Of course… Mom really still feels like she’s dreaming.”
“If it’s a dream, we’re in trouble.”
Roa and Liam tore off to claim bedrooms, racing excitedly from room to room.
“Let’s unpack first, then write down everything we still need and go shopping tomorrow.”
“That sounds right.”
Mother began inspecting every corner of the house with a delighted expression while the last of the boxes kept arriving.
When the work was mostly done, Marcus left to return the rented wagon. Leo stayed behind with me in the living room and gave a low whistle.
“Knowing you live in a place like this makes me feel good too. It’s got to be ten times bigger than before. Rent’s expensive, right?”
“Seventy dollars a month.”
“Wow.”
Roughly six times what the tenement had cost. Leo’s surprise was understandable.
“You should think about moving soon yourself.”
“For whose benefit? That guy still thinks I shine shoes for a living.”
Leo’s father was a drunk. He spent the money his son earned shining shoes on liquor, and when the take was poor he used his fists without warning.
“These days I just toss him a dollar and he crawls out happy, doesn’t come back till morning. Completely useless human being.”
“He still hit you?”
“Think I’d just take it? That time’s long gone. Lately he seems scared of me—won’t even meet my eyes.”
A bitter smirk twisted Leo’s mouth as he clenched his fist. His father was a tangle of love and hate, and underneath it all lay a stubborn pity. He knew the man had nowhere else to turn but the bottle.
Leo’s father had fought in the Spanish-American War. The malaria and yellow fever he caught while serving in Cuba still tortured him years later.
“Anyway, Kieran. You’re my hope. Watching you succeed gives me real drive.”
“This is only the beginning. We’re going to do even better, so don’t get impatient.”
“Got it. I’ll head out then—you finish up with the family. I’m off!”
Mother thanked him for his hard work and pressed a two-dollar bill into his hand.
“I already gave Marcus his share, so don’t feel bad. You really worked hard today.”
“Hard work? Of course I help. I’ll be going then. Roa, Liam—don’t get so excited you can’t sleep tonight, okay?”
Only after saying proper goodbyes to everyone did Leo leave for home. I was about to step back inside when I nearly collided with a middle-aged woman at the entrance.
She looked to be in her mid-forties, draped in a fur stole and glittering with jewelry.
“What are you doing here?”
“We just moved in today.”
“Hmm?”
She glanced between me and the second-floor windows, then tilted her head.
“You’re the new tenants on two?”
“Is there a problem?”
“Oh my, is that even a question? There’s a big problem. What kind of lunatic realtor showed you this place? This isn’t somewhere Orientals belong.”
The “Orientals” she meant—Chinese immigrants—mostly lived in Chinatown or the southern edge of the Lower East Side. Just as racial walls had been erected through the heart of the LES, this block was solidly white and middle-class.
“Are you the landlord?”
“No. Why?”
“I figured only the owner would worry about property values dropping. Fellow tenants shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Oh my, look at this one. The neighborhood’s going downhill and that’s why I’m saying it! Honestly, he can’t even understand plain English—what a mess. Oh, perfect timing, Mr. Walcott.”
I followed her gaze. A man was walking toward us.
He looked to be in his late thirties, clean-cut in a suit, sporting a neat mustache. Walcott addressed the woman with a lifeless expression.
“Is something the matter, Mrs. Gerber?”
“The new people on two just moved in, and wouldn’t you know it—they’re Oriental.”
Walcott gave me a half-lidded once-over and nodded.
“I see.”
“That’s all you have to say? Look around—there isn’t a single Oriental living anywhere near here.”
“Is that so? In any case, I’m tired. I’m going in.”
“Oh, Mr. Walcott! This is no ordinary problem!”
Ignoring Mrs. Gerber’s shrill protests, the man disappeared into the townhouse.
I started to follow, but the woman caught my arm.
“Where do you think you’re going? We’re not finished talking.”
“That’s enough. Don’t do something you’ll regret later.”
“Oh my, oh my! Are you threatening me? Some uneducated riffraff walks in and—really!”
I made a show of digging at my ear, making it clear I found her voice unbearable, then shook off her hand and stepped inside. Morris Realty’s words floated back to me.
I’m not sure about the first floor, but the third is a pharmacist and the fourth is a factory owner like your mother—runs a garment shop on Orchard Street.
All of them Jewish. The neighborhood itself was full of successful Jewish families, so that part wasn’t strange. To them, I was the odd one out.
As I opened the front door I felt Mrs. Gerber’s burning stare climbing the stairs behind me. She craned her neck trying to peer inside, so I snorted and shut the door firmly.
How should I handle her? For the sake of long-term peace, maybe I should just get rid of her.
Inside, Roa was scampering around the living room.
“Big Brother, in this house you can even run! If we play hide-and-seek it’ll be hard to find me. Should Roa hide now?”
“Not right now. Did you finish unpacking your room?”
“I put the books on the desk and hung up the bag. But Roa’s going to sleep with Mom. The room’s too big—it’s scary.”
I smiled and headed for Liam’s room. My brother was sitting blankly at his new desk.
“What are you doing?”
“……I just still can’t believe it.”
“Like the desk?”
“Yeah. I love it.”
“Guess you can’t use ‘no place to study at home’ as an excuse anymore.”
Wardrobe, bed, desk—everything he had once shared with the family was now entirely his. Maybe that overwhelmed him; he muttered something strange.
“I’ll grow up fast so I can help.”
“I’m not even fully grown yet.”
“That’s why I respect you, hyung.”
Respect? A chill ran down my spine. Was the kid hitting delayed middle-school syndrome? Every line he threw made my skin crawl.
I closed the door quickly and went looking for Mother. Of the six rooms, she stood in one of the empty ones, deep in thought.
“What are you doing?”
“I was wondering how to use this space.”
“Just make it your workroom. I already ordered a sewing machine.”
“Son…… are you telling me to keep working even at home?”
“You’ve misunderstood, Mother.”
She smiled shyly and gave a big nod.
“Thank you. I was hoping to use it as a workroom myself. You can decide what to do with the rest.”
“I’m turning that one into a training room.”
“Hmm?”
Having extra rooms really was nice. Starting today I would begin proper training in earnest.
Our first dinner in the new house.
Roa sat at the big table, looked around at the family, and put on a serious face.
“Being bigger is good, but there’s something bad about it too. Roa discovered it.”
“What is it?”
“The distance has grown.”
In the tenement we had crowded around a tiny table, practically touching. Now we sat with comfortable space between us. To Roa that empty gap must have looked enormous.
“No hiding just because the house is big. No sitting far away just because the table is big.”
“You’re right. Let’s sit close, just like Roa said.”
Mother pulled her chair right up beside Roa. Liam did the same, then tried to scoot next to me.
“Just eat, you brat.”
“The distance where you can feel each other’s warmth—that’s a family’s distance, hyung. Don’t run away.”
“……Mom, Roa’s age is really terrifying. I don’t think we can avoid it.”
“Nonsense. Our daughter can do it. Shall we say grace?”
Mother’s prayer that night was especially long. She mentioned our late father for the first time in a while and asked him to watch over us so the family would stay healthy and happy in our new home.
“I’m sure he’s overjoyed up in heaven. Let’s eat!”
Just as the pleasant meal was winding down, someone knocked at the front door.
“I’ll get it.”
Frowning, I approached the entrance.
“Who is it?”
“Samuel Gerber from the fourth floor.”
Mrs. Gerber’s husband, then.
I opened the door. The woman stood with her arms crossed, glaring, while a half-bald, mustached middle-aged man beside her wore an angry expression.
“So it was true.”
“If you’re going to say something strange, turn around and leave.”
“See, dear? So rude.”
“Ahem. I’d like to speak with your parents. Are they in—”
The husband’s eyes suddenly went wide.
“M-Mrs. Graves?”
“Oh my, Mr. Samuel Gerber. You live here?”
True to its name as Garment Street, Orchard Street was lined with clothing factories. The owners held meetings to promote the street’s development, and Mother had attended a couple of them.
“I completely misunderstood. I never imagined your eldest son would be so… different.”
“Different? Mr. Gerber, that doesn’t sound very nice.”
“Ahem. In any case, since we’re living in the same townhouse, let’s get along. Good day.”
Samuel Gerber turned away with an unsettled look and tone, taking his wife’s hand—she clearly still had plenty left to say—and leading her up the stairs.
Coming down the other way was the pharmacist I had seen earlier. He was holding the hand of a cute little girl about Roa’s age. Outside he had looked endlessly gloomy, but now, with his daughter, his face was full of smiles. He even had the leisure to greet us.
“Welcome to the building. I’m George Walcott from the third floor.”
“Nora Graves. Your daughter is absolutely adorable.”
“Did someone call for me?”
As if she had been waiting, Roa popped outside. Spotting a girl her own age, she blinked.
“Hi! I’m Roa Graves, seven years old. You?”
“Elijah Walcott. I’m seven too.”
Meeting a friend the moment she arrived stretched Roa’s smile from ear to ear. She twitched her lips, dying to start a conversation, but today the meeting had to stay short.
“Well then, see you around.”
Walcott took his daughter for a walk. It was a father-daughter scene we almost never saw in the tenements.
Office in the Allen Street twin buildings.
After spending the entire weekend unpacking and shopping, I finally returned to work.
“Orchard Street protection money is still being collected by the Weinberg unit, right?”
Leo nodded while checking papers.
“Weinberg’s doing fine. Why?”
“Tell them to raise the protection fee on Gerber Orchard Works Garment Company by twenty percent.”
“Something happen?”
“The owner lives on the fourth floor of our building.”
“……Did he say something about you being Oriental?”
No explanation needed anymore. Leo was more than qualified to be my secretary.
“Make them pay it ruthlessly.”
“Okay. Got it.”
“Every time they act up, raise it another ten percent.”
I was still savoring that petty revenge when Lenny Goldstein, who managed the gambling den, walked into the office.
“This is the invitation I told you about.”
Lenny held out an envelope. The sender was the LES GH Association. I had never even heard of the group until now.
To the proprietors who continue to operate GH establishments within the LES despite difficult market conditions:
Now that unfortunate incidents such as the bombings have quieted, we have arranged a gathering so that your businesses—and the stable commerce of the LES as a whole—may continue to prosper.
GH stood for gambling house. The invitation requested attendance at a conference at seven o’clock Sunday evening at a restaurant on the Bowery.
“Who delivered the invitation?”
“A Jewish guy. Said he was just the messenger.”
I had already heard about the invitation last Saturday and declined. No one knew who would show up or how many. For all I knew the NYPD or a rival gang had set a trap to track down Union headquarters.
Besides, the existence of the gambling den beneath the Pumpkin Dance Hall was already an open secret in the underworld. Some sharper operators even linked both the dance hall and the gambling den directly to the Union.
“Better for the heart not to go to those things.”
“I feel the same.”
Then, two days later, a troubling article appeared in the New York Herald Tribune.
On the night of April 1, Harry Cohen was shot and killed in the apartment building where he resided. Cohen had for years been known as the operator of several secret gambling houses in New York and, according to police records, had been arrested multiple times on illegal gambling charges.
An anonymous police source stated that “Harry was a well-known name in gambling circles and had connections to various gangs across New York.”
Of particular note: only hours before his death, Harry Cohen had attempted to contact an assistant district attorney. While the prosecutor’s office declined to provide specifics, an anonymous tipster suggested that Cohen had intended to supply information regarding New York’s gambling organizations, and that this attempt at cooperation may have been the motive for the killing.
The LES gambling-house conference and the death of the informant Harry Cohen. Just as I became certain the two were connected, the same messenger returned to the gambling den.
This time his purpose was different. He even went to the dance hall and repeated the same request.
Tell me how to get in contact with the Union.