In the story books the tragedies of life work themselves out to more or less tragic conclusions. In real life the most tragic tragedies are those that have no conclusion—that can have no conclusion until death writes “Finis!” From which one might argue that many of us would be better off if we lived in novels. Chertoff, however, lived in Hester Street, and therefore had to abide by his destiny.

Chertoff was a hunchback. He had a huge head and tremendously long arms and features of waxen pallor. Children who saw him for the first time would run from him with fright and would hide in doorways until he had passed. Yet those who knew him loved him, for under his repellent exterior throbbed a warm heart, and his nature was kindly and cheering. In Gurtman’s sweatshop, where he toiled from dawn to nightfall, he was loved by all—that is, all save Gurtman—for 168when the day’s task seemed hardest and the click and roar of the machines chanted the song of despair that all sweatshop workers know so well, Chertoff would burst into a lively tune and fill the room with gladness. Then he would gossip and tell interesting stories and bandy jests with anyone in the room who showed the slightest disposition to contribute a moment’s gaiety to the dreary, heart-breaking routine.

It was before the days of the factory inspectors, and conditions were bad—so bad that if anyone were to tell you how bad they were you would never believe it. In those days a bright spirit in a sweatshop was no common thing. One day Gurtman announced that there would be a reduction of three cents on piece-work, and a great silence fell upon the room. A woman gasped as if something had struck her. And Chertoff struck up a merry Russian tune:
“The miller in his Sunday clothes
Came riding into Warsaw.”

“Why do you always sing those silly tunes?” Gurtman asked, peevishly.

And then Chertoff closed his eyes and answered:

169“Perhaps to save your life! Who knows?”

Then he opened his eyes and laughed, and many laughed with him at the very silliness of the retort, but the sweater only disliked him the more for it. It was a curious habit of Chertoff’s to close his eyes when something stung him, and it worked a startling transformation in his expression. It was as if a light had been extinguished and a sudden gloom had overspread his features. The lines became sharp, and something sinister would creep into his countenance. But in a moment his eyes would open and a light of kindness would illumine his face.

Twice this transformation had come upon him and had lingered long enough to make the room uneasy. The first time was when Chertoff’s mother, who had worked at the machine side by side with her son for five years, was summarily dismissed. Chertoff had asked the sweater for the reason. In the hearing of all the room Gurtman had curtly replied:

“She’s too old for work. She’s too slow. I don’t want her.”

They thought that Chertoff was fainting, so 170ashen 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 171eyes,” 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 172the 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, how............