Abraham Weissman made hats. This is how the world knew him and how he knew himself. For years, he lived alone above his little shop on Delancey Street. He bought rye at the bakery, chicken at the butcher, greens at the grocer, and sat in the farthest back corner at temple. He was a fixture in the neighborhood, yet if asked, not a single person could say more about him than that he was Abraham and he made hats. Not even his customers – generations of men who traveled to his shop from all of the five boroughs – knew more about Abraham than the value of his hats. In return, Abraham did not see men of science and arts and industry. He saw the perfect hat for the face before him: a boater or a homburg or a newsboy cap. He knew instantly how high the crown should be, how deep the brim and where it should snap: front or side or back. Abraham might have passed through this life with nothing to show that he once lived, except for the silk labels of Weissman in the lining of thousands of hats on closet shelves throughout New York. But for that summer day in 1915. Abraham was finishing the lining of a hat as he always did, at the front window where the daylight was best for hand-stitching, when he felt a change – a ripple in his existence, and his needle stopped. In the periphery of his vision he saw a shape in the corner of the window. The longer he sat, motionless, the shape became a face, which became the face of a small child, which became the face of a small boy, which became the face of a small Chinese boy. A small Chinese boy on Delancey Street was hardly a regular occurrence, but Abraham resumed his task. After all, the boy was not likely to buy a hat. Almost immediately the moment was forgotten. Until it happened again. And again. Each time, Abraham would feel the change and then notice the small figure in the corner of the window. By the end of the summer, Abraham would descend the stairs to the shop, and before he sat at his worktable the boy would be in the same place at his window. Small hands rested on the windowsill and large brown eyes would solemnly watch Abraham while he worked. At the end of the day, Abraham would pull the shade on the front door and turn to see the boy had gone again. One afternoon in that time between fall and winter, Abraham finished with a customer, turned back to his work, and froze, his breath caught in his throat. The boy was gone from his corner of the window. The shock was deep to this solitary man who made hats. It took him a moment to realize that what he felt was loss. It was the first time Abraham knew himself to be alone. All afternoon, Abraham struggled in his work. His hand would falter with his scissors. He gave a customer the wrong change back. He took down a bolt of black felt when what he meant to take down was the brown. It was with relief that the time came to draw the shade on the door and climb the back stairs. A glass of strong tea would restore him, he was certain. Then he spied the child. The tiny figure tucked back behind a stack of boxes, thin arms wrapped around legs, face resting on his knees. Even as relief flooded through Abraham, his eyes took in the worn shoes, grimy hands, and lack of a coat. November! No coat? Abraham cleared his throat and the little head jerked up at the sound. Wide eyes darted from Abraham to the door. Abraham put his fingers to his mouth and mimed eating. He pointed to the ceiling, crossed to the stairs, and waited. After a moment the boy stood up and followed where Abraham led. While the boy ate soup and bread, Abraham made a pallet for the child in the kitchen next to the stove, where he would be sure to be warm. That is how it began. Because as we all know, once change is allowed into ones life it moves in with all of its relatives until its not even recognized as change anymore. It is a new habit. So it was that Abrahams and the boys lives became entwined. The child picked up clippings from the floor around the worktable. Abraham made him a coat from one that had belonged to his father. The boy wiped the table as Abraham washed up after supper. At night, if the boy cried out in a dream, he would wake up to Abrahams hand on his forehead, the deep, soothing sound of his voice chasing away the fears until he could sleep again. The boy accompanied Abraham on his errands in the neighborhood, and for his sake, Abraham took the boy on the streetcar into the worlds beyond Delancey Street. In the summer, he even took the boy to Coney Island, where they both walked in the ocean for the first time in their lives. They became fluent in each others expressions and movements. Abraham knew when the boy needed to sleep, and the boy knew that he should draw quietly at the table while Abraham concentrated on his newspaper. Late in the second summer of their acquaintance, Abraham took the child for a walk. On this day they walked to the north and west of their neighborhood. There were bins filled with water and fish swimming in tight quarters. Piles of bright lemons and brown chestnuts. Paper lanterns swung from bamboo poles, and crowds – crowds of people who looked like the child. To the child, it was an adventure. He held tight to Abrahams hand, a smile on his face as he absorbed all this newness. To Abraham, it was a test. Did the boy have people here? Would this be the street where Abraham would hear a woman’s cry of recognition? In this place, would Abraham have to let go of this little boy’s hand? They spent the afternoon in Chinatown but no cry ever came. It was with tears of relief that Abraham steered them home to make supper. Tucking him into bed, Abraham announced that tomorrow the boy would go to school. “Name?” Abraham peered at the bespectacled matron behind the desk. “Abraham. Abraham Weissman.” “And the boys name?” Abraham looked down at the face looking up at him. “Isaac. My sons name is Isaac Weissman.” The following years flew past. War came and ended. Epidemics raged and passed. Hard times came and better times returned. The boy Isaac became a man, a husband, and a father. And many, many years later, he and his children sat Shiva for his father Abraham. Abraham Weissman made a family. Abraham Weissman made a home for that family. Oh, yes – and Abraham Weissman made hats.
Posted on: Sat, 08 Nov 2014 06:16:00 +0000
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