Black on White

This is the story of one whom we may call Abe Hyman and of how he moved all unawares through stark melodrama.

But before I tell about Abe Hyman I must tell you about black leather coats. Bear with me, friends—there is a connection.

Well, in Moscow, capital of the new Russia, coats, which are hard to get in any event, may be roughly divided into two classes: just coats and black leather coats. It happens that the latter can be bought only in the shop run by and for members of the redoubtable G. P. U. or secret service. A batch of them had once been imported and turned over to that exclusive store.

A black leather coat is therefore as good as a uniform. It is as good as an advertisement that the wearer belongs to the feared and fearsome “three letters” and is a creature apart. The coat in itself, of course, has no official standing. The merest mortal is allowed to wear one, except that it is not available anywhere but in the G. P. U. emporium.

Thus it comes about that a black leather coat—especially if coupled with a portfolio—gets respect, attention and a wide berth. It moves with an aura of power. The Muscovite who knows his borscht shows a healthy deference for that garment.

ENTER ABE HYMAN

And now your patience will be rewarded. I am down to the story. One day a meek-looking individual appeared in the offices of a certain Soviet Russian trading organization in New York. He explained in broken English that his name is Abe Hyman and that he has been unemployed ever so long. He explained that he knew Russian and was willing to do anything, from sweeping up to editing a paper, for a living.

These offices, like most others in New York, are pestered by desperate job-seekers often enough. It turns them out quite as perfunctorily. Normally Abe would never have passed the first barrier. But the canny office boy regarded Abe Hyman with suspicion, not untouched by awe. The fact is that Abe was wearing a black leather coat of precisely the cut so well known in Moscow, and in addition carried a portfolio!

So he was passed on delicately to a minor official. This official squirmed uncomfortably and regretted that there were no vacancies. But he was too smart to take any chances with a stranger thus accoutred. Who knows? Maybe he was sent…. Anyhow, he passed Abe one rung higher. And the second official relayed him to a third.

Eventually Abe Hyman, persistent but not too hopeful, stood before one of the big bosses of the organization. Stood in his black coat, a portfolio under his wing. And he got the job. A job, in fact, was improvised for him. He was given the care of the library.

QUESTIONED…

So every morning of every working day Abe arrived, hung his coat on a hook, and proceeded to earn his tiny stipend. He dusted the books, filed away the magazines and puttered around. He liked the job. What he liked above all was the attention he was receiving. Everyone was so comradely and kind and anxious to