How I Got Five Thousand Dollars from a Theatre Customer

I used to have two bankers who’d lend me money. One was Jacob R. Schiff, a bona fide millionaire. ³ He was a friend of mine and the Yiddish theatre was his hobby. He helped William Rolland build the Parkway Theatre. ⁴ In addition, I know that he helped Oscar Green acquire the Hopkinson Theatre, ⁵ and that each summer he provided interest-free loans to Yiddish actors, to tide them over the summer without resorting to loan sharks. He’d lend between two hundred and five hundred dollars to each actor. Those who were able to pay him back during the winter always had an open account with Schiff. Whenever I needed a few thousand dollars for thirty days, I’d always get it from Jacob R. Schiff and, thank God, I always kept my word and paid him back on time.

My second banker was Hermann, the busboy at the Café Royal. When I paid my actors by check on Saturday night Hermann would cash their checks, and I’d pay him ten dollars for the service. On Thursday, when the checks were returned by the bank, Hermann would come by and let me know: “Herr Skulnik, the checks haff been returned.” So, I’d give him another ten dollars and tell him to hold onto the checks for three more days and then deposit them again. Hermann was satisfied even if the checks were returned three times, because then he’d get three times ten dollars. He often asked me, “Herr Skulnik, was ist denn los? Vat’s going on? Your checks weren’t returned this week.” (Because in that situation he’d be deprived of ten or fifteen dollars.)

It’s worth noting that I had to carry out these maneuvers even when the plays met with success and packed houses. The top stars from Broadway came to admire us and would then return a second time together with their friends, to show us off to them. Major Sarnoff of the National Broadcasting Company came repeatedly with different friends of his in tow. ⁶ He always paid at the box office with a crisp new hundred-dollar bill.

Once, he brought along the world-renowned writer Emil Ludwig, who wrote biographies of some of the world’s most important personalities, whereupon Ludwig became one of our fans and brought along his friends. ⁷ He had a habit of getting up from his seat and approaching the stage in the middle of the performance, clapping all the way. The audience, watching him, would keep up their applause longer than usual. (This was doubtless a custom back in Germany.) At any rate, our success with Fishl der gerotener was extraordinary, and with this great success came my need to raise cash every Monday.

As the old joke has it: On Monday I borrowed from Moishe to pay Chaim, and on Shabbos I borrowed from Chaim to pay Moishe.

One fine day, Rumshinsky said to me, “Menashe, I want to tell you about a place where, if you go there, you can get whatever you ask for. I’d go there myself, but he won’t give me anything. He’ll lend you however much you want.” “Who is this man?” I asked. “He’s one of your fans. He comes every week to see you. Each time he buys up the entire front row and brings along his friends.” ⁸

At first, I didn’t want to go to someone I didn’t know and borrow money from him. But we had to write checks to the Revenue Department for admission taxes and we wanted the checks to clear. Rumshinsky gave me a name and the address of a restaurant on Broadway. Before going there, I wanted Rumshinsky to tell me who this man was and what he looked like. He explained to me that the man always comes into the theatre five minutes after the performance begins and always leaves five or ten minutes before the performance ends. During the intermissions he never remains in his seat.

Some kind of oddball, I thought, but I was interested in meeting him. I rode to the café on Broadway. It was across the street from the Metropolitan Opera House—Gertner’s Café, if I’m not mistaken. ⁹ Whatever—I asked the cashier to point out the man.

I didn’t have to look for very long because the man had spotted me earlier and recognized me. He came right up to me and embraced me like a long-lost brother. He escorted me to the tables and introduced me to everybody. “Do you know who this is?” he asked each and every one of them. “This is Menashe Skulnik, the greatest actor in New York, the greatest comedian in the whole wide world!” He slapped me on the shoulder and thanked me for coming to see him. “Your friend Rumshinsky promised me that you’ll come to see me.”

We sat down together; he struck me as a highly intelligent person in his forties, very well dressed, with a sympathetic face. And he asked me, “What can I do for you?” I was barely able to stammer that I needed five thousand dollars. His facial expression suddenly turned stern, and his tone completely changed. “For how long?” he asked me, sounding angry. I didn’t know what to say to him, but the words “for ninety days” somehow tumbled off my tongue.

I was certain that he was going to bargain with me for a shorter term, or that instead of five thousand he might give me half the amount. He got up, went into the phone booth, and signaled me to join him there. I slipped inside and he took out a pack of hundreds and fifties and counted out five thousand dollars. “Remember,” he said to me, “only ninety days. And I want it back in cash. No checks!” he warned me.

I placed the five thousand dollars in my pocket and took out a promissory note which I was about to fill in. “What’s that?” he asked. “A note,” I said. “I don’t want any notes,” he said to me. “And I don’t want any publicity. Don’t tell anyone that you’ve borrowed money from me. Ninety days from now, I’ll expect you in the same place with five thousand in cash.”

I thanked him from the bottom of my heart, shook his hand, and said that it was a real pleasure to meet him – and I sincerely meant it. He then said to me, “I’ll be seeing you. I come to the theatre every week with my friends.” “Good-bye,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

I went off and immediately deposited the five thousand dollars in the bank. I thought that the five thousand would free me from any worries during the next three months, and if it turned out to be difficult to pay back the entire amount, I’d pay back half of it, and he’d wait another thirty days for me to give him the balance. That’d be fine, I told myself.

When Rumshinsky saw me, he gave me an impish smile and didn’t even ask if I’d received the money. He knew perfectly well that I had.

Two days later, my theatre’s accountant, David Kulak, came by. He helped us out with money from time to time. When he noticed the five-thousand-dollar bank deposit he naturally asked me, “Where’d you get the five thousand dollars?” I took out the slip of paper and showed him the name – Mr. Buchalter – and the address. Kulak grew pale. “Menashe, do you know who you took money from?” “Of course I know,” I said. “He’s a fan of mine.” “That’s Lepke Buchalter,” Kulak informed me. “He’s the biggest gangster in America, the head of Murder Incorporated. We’ve got to do everything in our power to have five thousand dollars on hand to give back to him, exactly ninety days from now. If we don’t, not even the slightest trace of you will remain.”

What can I say? For ninety days I wasn’t able even to shut my eyes. I didn’t sleep; I didn’t eat. I was upset with Rumshinsky because he knew full well where he was sending me. In short, when the ninety days were up, I put fifty hundred-dollar bills in my pocket and went to the same café, and with a palpitating heart I approached Mr. Buchalter. He extended his hand to me, took me from table to table, and introduced me as the world’s greatest comedian. I summoned up my courage and smiled. He then asked me if I had the money. “Yes,” I said. And once again he took me into the phone booth, and I gave him the pack of hundreds. He didn’t even bother to count them out. And when we stepped out of the phone booth he said, “And now, treat me to breakfast.”

I sat down with him, and he had breakfast, for which the waiter gave me the check.

“Now that you’ve returned the money in time,” he said to me, “I want you to know that it’s been a great honor for me to help you out. I did it because I like you, and you’ll have an open account with me as long as I live.”

But he didn’t live long; a little while later he was shown the electric chair. ¹⁰

Translator’s afterword:

A few months after he met Skulnik, Lepke Buchalter (along with several other mobsters) was indicted for the murder, on September 13, 1936, of a candy-store owner named Joe Rosen. Meanwhile, in November 1936, Buchalter was convicted for violating federal anti-trust laws in the rabbit-skin fur industry and sentenced to two years in federal prison. Rather than serve time, he and his partner in crime, Jacob “Gurrah” Shapiro, jumped bail. Buchalter remained at large until August 1939, when he surrendered to J. Edgar Hoover. Two years later, while serving time for a narcotics charge, he was tried for murder and sentenced to death. Louis “Lepke” Buchalter and two of his partners in crime, Emanuel Weiss and Louis Capone, were executed at Sing-Sing on March 4, 1944.

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