As Jack walked into the office, Tallman asked him to sit down and offered him a cigarette. Jack was suspicious—the man was never this friendly. He accepted the cigarette all the same. But before the first puff reached his lungs, the foreman had taken a piece of paper from his drawer and held it out to him without saying a word. Jack recognized the document immediately. For a moment, he thought it must be a mistake, but Tallman continued to hold out the letter of dismissal until Jack took it from him. After reading it, he sat in silence. The document announced the termination of his contract without specifying a reason. As he looked up, he saw a hint of a smile on the foreman’s face, a smile he could happily wipe off with a thump, he thought to himself. But assaulting him would only get Jack locked up, and he wasn’t going to give Tallman that pleasure. After slamming the door on his way out, he headed to the trade union offices, where they informed him that there was nothing they could do. Henry Ford, the factory’s owner, had personally ordered every Jew to be dismissed.
“They must have added my name to a blacklist, because I found it impossible to find work anywhere in Detroit. When my savings ran out, I had to leave my apartment, so I came back to be with my father, who wasn’t in a good way. He hadn’t told me, but the shoe store’s debts and the cost of treating my mother’s illness had ruined him. For a while, I worked in a repair shop, fixing flat tires and washing cars for a miserable salary until the owner sold the business. Then I did a bit of everything: mechanic, lathe operator, electrician, docker. But unemployment spread through New York, and by the end of the summer, I found myself on the street, broke. It’s nothing you haven’t heard already! And the ironic thing about all of this is that my father still thinks I’m working. He’s sick, and I don’t want to upset him. Which is why I thought to call you. I reckoned that seeing as you’re a trade union guy, you might be able to help me. I hope I’m right.”
“The filthy rats! I could imagine it happening to pretty much anyone, but not you. And at Ford! Those fat cats! Things are bad. Really bad. I’m serious. You should have formed a union.” He stood up from the table and gesticulated at the other patrons of the coffeehouse. “Workers need to defend themselves against the vultures. They need to band together to help one another. Do you hear? This is how the capitalists grind us down!”
Jack was embarrassed. He’d forgotten how vehement Walter could become, and he tried to calm him down; he didn’t want them to be thrown out, and he was even less keen for word to get around that he was one of those hotheads who goaded the jobless into rising up against the employers. Fortunately, the few customers in the coffeehouse continued with their conversations without paying much attention. Jack got the feeling it wasn’t the first time they’d listened to one of his friend’s rousing speeches.
“There you go,” Walter said, slumping despondently back into his chair. “Spineless, all of them! The jobless just sit around waiting for someone to come down from the heavens and help them, and the employed bless themselves and keep their heads down to wait for the storm to pass. To hell with this country!”
Jack felt uncomfortable. Walter had been his best friend, but that didn’t mean Jack had to share his radical views. In fact, Jack remained convinced that the United States offered endless opportunities and that if a man worked hard enough, sooner or later he’d escape the misery. His fear was that it might not happen before he starved to death.
He kept his thoughts to himself and refocused on Walter.
“So, you’re just a trade unionist?”
“Well, let’s say I used to be. The printer’s where I worked went bust, and the bastard in charge let us all go. The trade union thing gave me enough to survive on for a while, but no longer. But we sure as hell gave that bloodsucker his comeuppance!” He smashed his fist into the palm of his other hand.
“So, you’re out of a job, too?”
“Who isn’t? Wake up, Jack! Why do you think I’m wearing this patched suit?”
Jack took a deep breath. As nice as it would’ve been to reminisce about the old days, it was time to speak frankly. When he asked him about the kind of work he had in mind for him, Walter gave him a mischievous smile, adjusted his spectacles, and from his raincoat took a newspaper clipping that he unfolded on the table.
“Relax, Jack. I have everything under control.” He pushed the crumpled clipping toward his friend.
Jack picked up the piece of paper and smoothed it out with care. As he read, he went from confused to astonished.
“Walter, if this is some kind of joke, I’m not in the mood for—”
“A joke? Are you serious? This is the solution to all our problems!” He pointed at the scrap of newspaper again.
Jack had to read the New York Times advertisement twice to convince himself that Walter was serious.
THE AMTORG TRADING CORPORATION
OFFERS AMERICA’S UNEMPLOYED THOUSANDS OF JOBS
IN THE FACTORIES OF THE SOVIET UNION
“Have you lost your mind?” He stood, visibly disappointed. “Do you really think I’m going to leave the country where I was born to go back to the hell my parents escaped from?”
“Listen to me, Jack! Things aren’t like they were before. Now the Soviets are offering—”
“You’re serious, aren’t you? For the love of God, Walter! We’re Americans! Have you forgotten that those Bolsheviks are butchers? That they killed the tsar and everyone else who got in their way? Even our own government has questioned the legitimacy of their leaders!”
“Please, Jack, calm down and listen! I was at Amtorg yesterday, and everything advertised here is true. You should’ve seen the lines of applicants, from all over the country: Texans, Southerners, Californians . . . entire starving families, looking for a better life.”
“I’m sorry, Walter, but you can count me out.”
“Oh, come on, Jack! You speak perfect Russian. And there’s work for you there. Do you know how much they’re paying in their factories? A hundred and eighty dollars a month! Do you hear me? How much would you get here now, if you could even find a job? Four dollars? Five, maybe? And that’s not all. In Russia, they’ll give you a free home! And medicine. And paid vacation. Look, just last year they received over a hundred thousand applications from Americans like you and me. A hundred thousand, Jack! With your skills and my contacts, we’d be kings of the world.”
Jack shook his head in disapproval.
“Russia . . . You must be crazy.”
“Crazy? Me? Have you stopped to look at yourself recently?” Walter fell silent for a moment. “Do you really think you’re going to trick anyone with your raincoat that won’t even button up? Tell me something: When was the last time you ate a hot plate of spaghetti? Or a hamburger? Or pork chops? How long will you last like this? What has this country done for you that makes you think it’s so great?”
Jack wasn’t sure how to answer, but the one thing he did know was that in Detroit he’d had a chance to enjoy life. Though he had lost everything he had worked for, something told him that he could get it all back.
“I’m sorry. I can’t accept, Walter. I knew that you were wrapped up in all this stuff at school, but I never thought you’d go this far. I don’t know. Maybe it’s my fault for thinking you were talking about a normal job. Thanks for the offer anyhow. If you end up going, I wish you all the luck in the world.” He rummaged around in his pocket for the money to pay for the coffees himself.
“Wait a minute, Jack. Don’t you see? We used to be inseparable, and now you’ve shown up as if it were meant to happen. I don’t speak a word of Russian; I’d feel like an orphan out there. If it’s the Bolsheviks who are the problem, I can promise you that—”