Feld, the shoemaker, was annoyed that his helper, Sobel,
was so insensitive to his reverie that he wouldn’t for a minute
cease his fanatic pounding at the other bench. He gave
him a look, but Sobel’s bald head was bent over the last as he
worked, and he didn’t notice. The shoemaker shrugged and
continued to peer through the partly frosted window at the
nearsighted haze of falling February snow. Neither the shifting
white blur outside, nor the sudden deep remembrance of the
snowy Polish village where he had wasted his youth, could
turn his thoughts from Max the college boy (a constant visitor
in the mind since early that morning when Feld saw him
trudging through the snowdrifts on his way to school), whom
he so much respected because of the sacrifices he had made
throughout the years—in winter or direst heat—to further his
education. An old wish returned to haunt the shoemaker: that
he had had a son instead of a daughter, but this blew away in
the snow, for Feld, if anything, was a practical man. Yet he
could not help but contrast the diligence of the boy, who was
a peddler’s son, with Miriam’s unconcern for an education.
True, she was always with a book in her hand, yet when the
opportunity arose for a college education, she had said no she
would rather find a job. He had begged her to go, pointing
out how many fathers could not afford to send their children
to college, but she said she wanted to be independent. As for
education, what was it, she asked, but books, which Sobel,
who diligently read the classics, would as usual advise her on.
Her answer greatly grieved her father.
A figure emerged from the snow and the door opened. At
the counter the man withdrew from a wet paper bag a pair of
battered shoes for repair. Who he was the shoemaker for a moment
had no idea, then his heart trembled as he realized, before
he had thoroughly discerned the face, that Max himself
was standing there, embarrassedly explaining what he wanted
done to his old shoes. Though Feld listened eagerly, he
couldn’t hear a word, for the opportunity that had burst upon
him was deafening.
Are you receiving Story of the Week each week?
Sign up now at storyoftheweek.loa.org to receive our weekly alert
so you won’t miss a single story!
The Library of America • Story of the Week
From Bernard Malamud: Novels and Stories of the 1940s & 50s
(The Library of America, 2014), pages 468–78.
Originally published in Partisan Review (September–October 1950) and
collected in The Magic Barrel (1958). Copyright © 1950 by Bernard Malamud;
renewed 1977 Bernard Malamud. Reprinted by arrangement with Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.
The First Seven Years 469
He couldn’t exactly recall when the thought had occurred
to him, because it was clear he had more than once considered
suggesting to the boy that he go out with Miriam. But he had
not dared speak, for if Max said no, how would he face him
again? Or suppose Miriam, who harped so often on independence,
blew up in anger and shouted at him for his meddling?
Still, the chance was too good to let by: all it meant was an
introduction. They might long ago have become friends had
they happened to meet somewhere, therefore was it not his
duty—an obligation—to bring them together, nothing more,
a harmless connivance to replace an accidental encounter in
the subway, let’s say, or a mutual friend’s introduction in the
street? Just let him once see and talk to her and he would for
sure be interested. As for Miriam, what possible harm for a
working girl in an office, who met only loudmouthed salesmen
and illiterate shipping clerks, to make the acquaintance of a
fine scholarly boy? Maybe he would awaken in her a desire to
go to college; if not—the shoemaker’s mind at last came to
grips with the truth—let her marry an educated man and live a
better life.
When Max finished describing what he wanted done to his
shoes, Feld marked them, both with enormous holes in the
soles which he pretended not to notice, with large white-chalk
X’s and the rubber heels, thinned to the nails, he marked with
O’s, though it troubled him he might have mixed up the letters.
Max inquired the price, and the shoemaker cleared his
throat and asked the boy, above Sobel’s insistent hammering,
would he please step through the side door there into the hall.
Though surprised, Max did as the shoemaker requested, and
Feld went in after him. For a minute they were both silent,
because Sobel had stopped banging, and it seemed they understood
neither was to say anything until the noise began
again. When it did, loudly, the shoemaker quickly told Max
why he had asked to talk to him.
“Ever since you went to high school,” he said, in the dimly
lit hallway, “I watched you in the morning go to the subway to
school, and I said always to myself, this is a fine boy that he
wants so much an education.”
“Thanks,” Max said, nervously alert. He was tall and grotesquely
thin, with sharply cut features, particularly a beak-like
470 TWENTY STORIES
nose. He was wearing a loose, long, slushy overcoat that hung
down to his ankles, looking like a rug draped over his bony
shoulders, and a soggy old brown hat, as battered as the shoes
he had brought in.
“I am a businessman,” the shoemaker abruptly said to
conceal his embarrassment, “so I will explain you right away
why I talk to you. I have a girl, my daughter Miriam—she is
nineteen—a very nice girl and also so pretty that everybody
looks on her when she passes by in the street. She is smart, always
with a book, and I thought to myself that a boy like you,
an educated boy—I thought maybe you will be interested
sometime to meet a girl like this.” He laughed a bit when he
had finished and was tempted to say more but had the good
sense not to.
Max stared down like a hawk. For an uncomfortable second
he was silent, then he asked, “Did you say nineteen?”
“Yes.”
“Would it be all right to inquire if you have a picture of
her?”
“Just a minute.” The shoemaker went into the store and
hastily returned with a snapshot that Max held up to the light.
“She’s all right,” he said.
Feld waited.
“And is she sensible—not the flighty kind?”
“She is very sensible.”
After another short pause, Max said it was okay with him if
he met her.
“Here is my telephone,” said the shoemaker, hurriedly
handing him a slip of paper. “Call her up. She comes home
from work six o’clock.”
Max folded the paper and tucked it away into his worn
leather wallet.
“About the shoes,” he said. “How much did you say they
will cost me?”
“Don’t worry about the price.”
“I just like to have an idea.”
“A dollar—dollar fifty. A dollar fifty,” the shoemaker said.
At once he felt bad, for he usually charged $2.25 for this kind
of job. Either he should have asked the regular price or done
the work for nothing.
The First Seven Years 471
Later, as he entered the store, he was startled by a violent
clanging and looked up to see Sobel pounding upon the naked
last. It broke, the iron striking the floor and jumping with a
thump against the wall, but before the enraged shoemaker
could cry out, the assistant had torn his hat and coat off the
hook and rushed out into the snow.
So Feld, who had looked forward to anticipating how it would
go with his daughter and Max, instead had a great worry on
his mind. Without his temperamental helper he was a lost man,
especially as it was years now since he had carried the store
alone. The shoemaker had for an age suffered from a heart
condition that threatened collapse if he dared exert himself.
Five years ago, after an attack, it had appeared as though he
would have either to sacrifice his business on the auction block
and live on a pittance thereafter, or put himself at the mercy of
some unscrupulous employee who would in the end probably
ruin him. But just at the moment of his darkest despair, this
Polish refugee, Sobel, had appeared one night out of the street
and begged for work. He was a stocky man, poorly dressed,
with a bald head that had once been blond, a severely plain
face, and soft blue eyes prone to tears over the sad books he
read, a young man but old—no one would have guessed thirty.
Though he confessed he knew nothing of shoemaking, he said
he was apt and would work for very little if Feld taught him
the trade. Thinking that with, after all, a landsman, he would
have less to fear than from a complete stranger, Feld took him
on and within six weeks the refugee rebuilt as good a shoe as
he, and not long thereafter expertly ran the business for the
thoroughly relieved shoemaker.
Feld could trust him with anything and did, frequently
going home after an hour or two at the store, leaving all the
money in the till, knowing Sobel would guard every cent of it.
The amazing thing was that he demanded so little. His wants
were few; in money he wasn’t interested—in nothing but
books, it seemed—which he one by one lent to Miriam, together
with his profuse, queer written comments, manufactured
during his lonely rooming house evenings, thick pads of
commentary which the shoemaker peered at and twitched his
shoulders over as his daughter, from her fourteenth year, read
472 TWENTY STORIES
page by sanctified page, as if the word of God were inscribed
on them. To protect Sobel, Feld himself had to see that he received
more than he asked for. Yet his conscience bothered
him for not insisting that the assistant accept a better wage
than he was getting, though Feld had honestly told him he
could earn a handsome salary if he worked elsewhere, or maybe
opened a place of his own. But the assistant answered, somewhat
ungraciously, that he was not interested in going elsewhere,
and though Feld frequently asked himself, What keeps
him here? why does he stay? he finally answered it that the
man, no doubt because of his terrible experiences as a refugee,
was afraid of the world.
After the incident with the broken last, angered by Sobel’s
behavior, the shoemaker decided to let him stew for a week
Feld, the shoemaker, was annoyed that his helper, Sobel,was so insensitive to his reverie that he wouldn’t for a minutecease his fanatic pounding at the other bench. He gavehim a look, but Sobel’s bald head was bent over the last as heworked, and he didn’t notice. The shoemaker shrugged andcontinued to peer through the partly frosted window at thenearsighted haze of falling February snow. Neither the shiftingwhite blur outside, nor the sudden deep remembrance of thesnowy Polish village where he had wasted his youth, couldturn his thoughts from Max the college boy (a constant visitorin the mind since early that morning when Feld saw himtrudging through the snowdrifts on his way to school), whomhe so much respected because of the sacrifices he had madethroughout the years—in winter or direst heat—to further hiseducation. An old wish returned to haunt the shoemaker: thathe had had a son instead of a daughter, but this blew away inthe snow, for Feld, if anything, was a practical man. Yet hecould not help but contrast the diligence of the boy, who wasa peddler’s son, with Miriam’s unconcern for an education.True, she was always with a book in her hand, yet when theopportunity arose for a college education, she had said no shewould rather find a job. He had begged her to go, pointingout how many fathers could not afford to send their childrento college, but she said she wanted to be independent. As foreducation, what was it, she asked, but books, which Sobel,who diligently read the classics, would as usual advise her on.Her answer greatly grieved her father.A figure emerged from the snow and the door opened. Atthe counter the man withdrew from a wet paper bag a pair ofbattered shoes for repair. Who he was the shoemaker for a momenthad no idea, then his heart trembled as he realized, beforehe had thoroughly discerned the face, that Max himselfwas standing there, embarrassedly explaining what he wanteddone to his old shoes. Though Feld listened eagerly, hecouldn’t hear a word, for the opportunity that had burst uponhim was deafening.Are you receiving Story of the Week each week?Sign up now at storyoftheweek.loa.org to receive our weekly alertso you won’t miss a single story!The Library of America • Story of the WeekFrom Bernard Malamud: Novels and Stories of the 1940s & 50s(The Library of America, 2014), pages 468–78.Originally published in Partisan Review (September–October 1950) andcollected in The Magic Barrel (1958). Copyright © 1950 by Bernard Malamud;renewed 1977 Bernard Malamud. Reprinted by arrangement with Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. The First Seven Years 469He couldn’t exactly recall when the thought had occurredto him, because it was clear he had more than once consideredsuggesting to the boy that he go out with Miriam. But he hadnot dared speak, for if Max said no, how would he face himagain? Or suppose Miriam, who harped so often on independence,blew up in anger and shouted at him for his meddling?Still, the chance was too good to let by: all it meant was anintroduction. They might long ago have become friends hadthey happened to meet somewhere, therefore was it not hisduty—an obligation—to bring them together, nothing more,a harmless connivance to replace an accidental encounter inthe subway, let’s say, or a mutual friend’s introduction in thestreet? Just let him once see and talk to her and he would forsure be interested. As for Miriam, what possible harm for aworking girl in an office, who met only loudmouthed salesmenand illiterate shipping clerks, to make the acquaintance of afine scholarly boy? Maybe he would awaken in her a desire togo to college; if not—the shoemaker’s mind at last came togrips with the truth—let her marry an educated man and live abetter life.When Max finished describing what he wanted done to hisshoes, Feld marked them, both with enormous holes in thesoles which he pretended not to notice, with large white-chalkX’s and the rubber heels, thinned to the nails, he marked withO’s, though it troubled him he might have mixed up the letters.Max inquired the price, and the shoemaker cleared histhroat and asked the boy, above Sobel’s insistent hammering,would he please step through the side door there into the hall.Though surprised, Max did as the shoemaker requested, andFeld went in after him. For a minute they were both silent,because Sobel had stopped banging, and it seemed they understoodneither was to say anything until the noise beganagain. When it did, loudly, the shoemaker quickly told Maxwhy he had asked to talk to him.“Ever since you went to high school,” he said, in the dimlylit hallway, “I watched you in the morning go to the subway toschool, and I said always to myself, this is a fine boy that hewants so much an education.”“Thanks,” Max said, nervously alert. He was tall and grotesquelythin, with sharply cut features, particularly a beak-like 470 TWENTY STORIESnose. He was wearing a loose, long, slushy overcoat that hungdown to his ankles, looking like a rug draped over his bonyshoulders, and a soggy old brown hat, as battered as the shoeshe had brought in.“I am a businessman,” the shoemaker abruptly said toconceal his embarrassment, “so I will explain you right awaywhy I talk to you. I have a girl, my daughter Miriam—she isnineteen—a very nice girl and also so pretty that everybodylooks on her when she passes by in the street. She is smart, alwayswith a book, and I thought to myself that a boy like you,an educated boy—I thought maybe you will be interestedsometime to meet a girl like this.” He laughed a bit when hehad finished and was tempted to say more but had the goodsense not to.Max stared down like a hawk. For an uncomfortable secondhe was silent, then he asked, “Did you say nineteen?”“Yes.”“Would it be all right to inquire if you have a picture ofher?”“Just a minute.” The shoemaker went into the store andhastily returned with a snapshot that Max held up to the light.“She’s all right,” he said.Feld waited.“And is she sensible—not the flighty kind?”“She is very sensible.”After another short pause, Max said it was okay with him ifhe met her.“Here is my telephone,” said the shoemaker, hurriedlyhanding him a slip of paper. “Call her up. She comes homefrom work six o’clock.”Max folded the paper and tucked it away into his wornleather wallet.“About the shoes,” he said. “How much did you say theywill cost me?”“Don’t worry about the price.”“I just like to have an idea.”“A dollar—dollar fifty. A dollar fifty,” the shoemaker said.At once he felt bad, for he usually charged $2.25 for this kindof job. Either he should have asked the regular price or donethe work for nothing.The First Seven Years 471Later, as he entered the store, he was startled by a violentclanging and looked up to see Sobel pounding upon the nakedlast. It broke, the iron striking the floor and jumping with athump against the wall, but before the enraged shoemakercould cry out, the assistant had torn his hat and coat off thehook and rushed out into the snow.So Feld, who had looked forward to anticipating how it wouldgo with his daughter and Max, instead had a great worry on
his mind. Without his temperamental helper he was a lost man,
especially as it was years now since he had carried the store
alone. The shoemaker had for an age suffered from a heart
condition that threatened collapse if he dared exert himself.
Five years ago, after an attack, it had appeared as though he
would have either to sacrifice his business on the auction block
and live on a pittance thereafter, or put himself at the mercy of
some unscrupulous employee who would in the end probably
ruin him. But just at the moment of his darkest despair, this
Polish refugee, Sobel, had appeared one night out of the street
and begged for work. He was a stocky man, poorly dressed,
with a bald head that had once been blond, a severely plain
face, and soft blue eyes prone to tears over the sad books he
read, a young man but old—no one would have guessed thirty.
Though he confessed he knew nothing of shoemaking, he said
he was apt and would work for very little if Feld taught him
the trade. Thinking that with, after all, a landsman, he would
have less to fear than from a complete stranger, Feld took him
on and within six weeks the refugee rebuilt as good a shoe as
he, and not long thereafter expertly ran the business for the
thoroughly relieved shoemaker.
Feld could trust him with anything and did, frequently
going home after an hour or two at the store, leaving all the
money in the till, knowing Sobel would guard every cent of it.
The amazing thing was that he demanded so little. His wants
were few; in money he wasn’t interested—in nothing but
books, it seemed—which he one by one lent to Miriam, together
with his profuse, queer written comments, manufactured
during his lonely rooming house evenings, thick pads of
commentary which the shoemaker peered at and twitched his
shoulders over as his daughter, from her fourteenth year, read
472 TWENTY STORIES
page by sanctified page, as if the word of God were inscribed
on them. To protect Sobel, Feld himself had to see that he received
more than he asked for. Yet his conscience bothered
him for not insisting that the assistant accept a better wage
than he was getting, though Feld had honestly told him he
could earn a handsome salary if he worked elsewhere, or maybe
opened a place of his own. But the assistant answered, somewhat
ungraciously, that he was not interested in going elsewhere,
and though Feld frequently asked himself, What keeps
him here? why does he stay? he finally answered it that the
man, no doubt because of his terrible experiences as a refugee,
was afraid of the world.
After the incident with the broken last, angered by Sobel’s
behavior, the shoemaker decided to let him stew for a week
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