Its ground floor was used as a
tailoring shop by the landlord himself, a white-headed giant of a
man whom I cannot recall otherwise than as smiling wistfully and
sighing. His name was Esrah Nodelman. His wife, who was a
dwarf beside him, ruled him with an iron hand
Mrs. Nodelman gave me breakfasts, and I soon felt like one of the
family.
She was a veritable chatter-box, her great topic of conversation
being her son Meyer, upon whom she doted, and his
American-born wife, whose name she scarcely ever uttered
without a malediction. She told me how she, Meyer's mother, her
sister, and a niece had turned out their pockets and pawned their
jewelry to help Meyer start in business as a clothing-manufacturer
"He's now worth a hundred thousand dollars--may no evil eye hit
him," she said. "He's a good fellow, a lump of gold. If God had
given him a better wife (may the plague carry off the one he has)
he would be all right. She has a meat-ball for a face, the face of a
murderess. She always was a murderess, but since Meyer became
a manufacturer there is no talking to her at all.
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