Nearly shouting, to be heard over the cacophony in the vast building, Avram Kantor, the apprentice baker, reported, “There are two men to see you, Rabbi.” 

Avram and the Rabbi stood in the middle of the largest matzah bakery in the world, the A. Rubinstein & Co. factory, in Cincinnati, Ohio. 

“Two men,” said Rabbi Rubinstein, stroking his beard with one hand while holding up two fingers with the other. “Two men. You know these men?”

“I do not, Rabbi,” Avram shouted, confident that the strangers, seated far away in the lobby of the bakery, would not hear. The plant was buzzing with the hubbub of nearly two hundred bustling bakers and their apprentices. The air was filled with a great din, from the maze of commercial machines to roll, knead, perforate, and cut dough; from giant automated packaging equipment; from whirring dishwashers; from humming refrigerators and freezers; and from a myriad of rolling carts being whisked this way and that with dizzying precision.

“You say you do not know these men,” the Rabbi noted, still stroking his long beard. “Yet you say they are here to see me.”

Avram nodded earnestly. He was a fine, handsome, lanky young man, with a pale complexion, Paul Newman-blue eyes, and curly hair so thick and golden it looked as if a bushel of sun-kissed marigolds had sprouted on his head and grown out since birth. For this, he and his parents were mercilessly teased in Avram’s early years. Questions about whether Avram was a Kantor naturally led him to wonder if he had been adopted. And, if so, was he Jewish? 

Avram found rules impossible. Impossible to understand. Impossible to follow, except for the rules he made. “You’re as Jewish as you want to be,” was a new rule he decided one day. He determinedly announced this new rule whenever someone questioned his origins. Still, the painful pestering persisted, especially as his parents and three sisters were of dark hair and eyes. 

 “Where did you get that one?” Uncle Morris once said to his mother, looking at Avram, as Morris tipped a full highball tumbler to his lips at the basement bar of Avram’s parent’s house, sloshing the mixture of whiskey, ginger ale, and carbonated water onto the wooden bar, much to the annoyance of Avram’s teetotaler mother, Sadie.

 “Better keep an eye on Sadie” Aunt Millie whispered with a wink to Avram’s father, Ruben, the chemist, who was mixing concoctions with a chemist’s precision behind his bar, after she had sipped one too many of Ruben’s Pink Ladies at a shiva for their dear friend, the deceased local bookie. 

Even Ruben’s brother, a cantor in the nearby synagogue, chimed in. “I know you’re a man of science, Ruben,” he had said, “and I’m just Cantor Kantor, but it does seem odd—Avram looks more Swedish than Jewish. Is there something you want to tell me?”

Sloshing a highball at the Kantor’s home bar, at yet another shiva, this one for their dear friend, the local fruit peddler, who died in a tragic fruit cart mishap, Howie the Butcher chortled, “are you sure he’s one of us?” to Ruben, who, despite his passion for logic and science, and his generally gentle disposition, and his years of marching for civil rights and pacifism, removed the thick spectacles from his face, and then promptly punched out Howie’s lights. The one and only punch Ruben had thrown in his life, albeit with uncanny, scientific precision. After this unseemly thwacking—for which Ruben was eternally remorseful—there was from time to time, for many subsequent months, a delivery boy from Howie’s Deli delivering free brisket, potato knishes, or roast chicken to the Kantor’s front door.  

“Two men?” the Rabbi asked again, now wiggling the two fingers he still held aloft.

“Yes, Rabbi.”

“They may well be men,” the Rabbi said, “yet, when is a man, who is a man, not a man?” 

“I’m not sure,” Avram confessed. Avram thought the Rabbi possessed great wisdom, though he often found the Rabbi more confusing than rules.

“When he is a bill collector,” the Rabbi explained. “Do these men have the appearance of bill collectors?”

“No, Rabbi. One said he is from Kreigman’s.”

“Come, Avram, let us meet these men.” 

Normally, an apprentice would not participate in such a meeting. But the Rabbi was rather fond of Avram, and he knew Avram took an interest in his daughter, Sosha. 

Despite its dominance in the powerful global matzah market, A. Rubinstein & Co. was struggling. Cash was short due to the recent expansion of the factory, a move the Rabbi made to compete with a well-financed, upstart competitor, V. Horowitz Kosher Foods, in Poughkeepsie. Horowitz’s location in New York meant lower costs for delivering matzah to the lucrative New York and New Jersey metropolitan matzah markets. The Rabbi responded with a plant expansion aimed first at increasing production from the existing facility in Ohio, with plans to later open a new factory in the northeast. The Rabbi was going to give these matzah mogul wannabees a run for their matzah money. And he had another card up his sleeve. His ace-in-the-hole: Kreigman’s. 

Kreigman’s, based in Cincinnati, was the largest grocery chain in the United States. The Rabbi had called Moses Kreigman, the owner, a few days earlier, as well as calling the owner of the largest flour miller in the country. He was going to ask Moses to lead him to the promised land of mass matzah distribution, and the miller, Levi Smalls, to supply the great quantity of flour which would be needed for worldwide matzah domination.

In the lobby, the Rabbi and Avram shook hands with Moses Kreigman, a tall, imposing, serious man in a dark suit, who introduced them to another imposing, serious, dark-suited man, Levi Smalls, the owner of General Smalls Mills, the biggest flour miller in America. The three titans and Avram walked into the conference room immediately off the lobby. There, the Rabbi explained his vision for the three companies to coordinate plans to create a global matzah dynasty. Kreigman’s would sell only Rubinstein’s matzah, and the vast demand for flour would be met by Smalls’s big flour mills. The three would establish a new company and share in the profits. They all agreed, then Levi and Moses asked for a tour. 

Part way through the factory, Moses, a man of great curiosity, cracked open the door to a diminutive room the group was walking past. 

“What’s this?” he asked.

The room was empty, except for a large, heavy wooden table in the middle. On the table was something strange. It was an array of equipment which appeared to be scientific. On one end, a large, circular, clear plastic barrel, with concentric glass tubes inside, spun slowly. The barrel was connected with more clear tubes to glass beakers, to glass globes with rubber stoppers on top, and to more, wider tubes, at the opposite end of the table. The rotating barrel was affixed somehow to gears beneath, which in turn were connected by wires to a large lead acid battery. Liquid inside the contraption periodically bubbled, burbled, then belched through escape vents. 

“Well,” the Rabbi said, slipping between Levi and Moses to press his face closer to the mysterious contraption, “it’s clearly a, yes, clearly–Gideon, come here!” 

Avram left hurriedly to find Gideon, the head baker, who was on the factory floor. A few moments later, Avram re-appeared with Gideon, who squeezed between the men so as to get close to the mysterious machine.

“Gideon,” the Rabbi said, “will you please explain to our guests the function of this device?”

Gideon bent over, stuck his spectacled face next to the turning barrel. Then he jumped back, having been startled when the mysterious machine emitted another series of burbly belches. 

“Well, Gideon, we are waiting.”

“Yes, Rabbi,” said Gideon, weakly, “it’s clearly a, clearly, yes, a device, which, of course, is meant for a purpose.”

The Rabbi nodded. 

“Gentlemen, please, if you will,” the Rabbi said, “let us continue our tour. Gideon, take that foolish toy apart.” The men headed to the door.

“Wait!” shouted Avram.

“Avram,” the Rabbi said, “what is the meaning of this?”

“It’s mine, you see. I invented it,” Avram said.

“There you are!” exclaimed Sosha, darting her head into the little room. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Father.  Oh, hello, Avram! Goodness, what’s that?” she added, catching sight of the mysterious contraption. Sosha was tall, lithe, with long brunette hair, large hazel eyes, and a pretty smile. All the men except the Rabbi and Avram straightened their posture, took air into their lungs, and cleared their throats, the way older men often do when an attractive woman enters.  

“Well, you see, Rabbi” Avram began to explain, “it’s my invention.”

“What does it do, Avram?” the Rabbi asked.

“I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t be sure it would work, you see. But finally, just this morning, after I made further adjustments to the polymer strands, it began working. It works, you see,” he said, then cackled with the excitement of a chicken which has just laid its first egg. 

“Excellent!” declared the Rabbi. “It does–what?”

“Well, it’s rather scientific, Rabbi.”

“I can see that.”

“It has to do with chemistry.”

“Yes, Avram, but what does it do?”

“Well, of course you know what wheat is. Well, you may not have realized that the chemical composition of wheat contains cellulose and pentosans, polymers based on xylose and arabinose, which are, of course, tightly bound proteins. The machine unbinds these, and then, through the reformulation of polymers present in the cell walls, produces self-generating proteins and carbohydrates. It’s rather simple, really.”

“In English, Avram!” the Rabbi shouted.

“It makes wheat,” Avram said. 

All in the room looked gobsmacked.

“It’s impossible,” everyone in the room scoffed.

“No, actually, it is possible, quite possible,” Avram said cheerily, “just add water here,” he noted, pointing to a spigot on the wheat making machine. “You can make an endless supply of wheat. With enough machines—I’d say forty or fifty—you can produce enough wheat for the entire matzah market. We can feed the world, actually. I’ve already made a box of matzah using this wheat.”

“Oh, Avram!” Sosha shouted, “you’ve done it! You’ll be worshipped, a hero. Everyone will love you!” She flung her arms around Avram’s shoulders and kissed him—for the first time—squarely on the lips.

“Sosha!” the Rabbi stammered.

“But Father, isn’t it marvelous? Avram’s done it. Now people all over the world will be able to eat–for free.”

The Rabbi smiled broadly. This could be one of the greatest inventions in history. Levi and Moses looked grim.

That night, to celebrate Avram’s new triumph, Avram and Sosha went out for Chinese food with their good friends, Hannah and Ray. They told them the whole story.

“Isn’t it marvelous?” Sosha asked at the end of the story, holding her wine glass up for the others to clink in celebration. “Soon no one will ever be hungry again, and Avram will be loved the world over.”

“They’ll never let you get away with it,” Hannah said. 

“Whatever do you mean?” Sosha asked.

“Feeding people for free. They won’t let it happen,” Hannah said. “I’m sorry, Sosha, Avram, but as a businessperson, I know your invention is a threat.”

“That’s right,” Ray said, “I’m just a painter—more interested in pointillism than polymers—but I read about a car some guy invented that will go a thousand miles on one gallon of gas, and of course it never got to market. They bury such things, don’t they?” 

Avram and Sosha looked at each other pensively.

“Where’s that blasted tea?” the Rabbi cried the next morning in his conference room. Levi and Moses sat across from him, glumly ruminating. The Rabbi stood, picked up the conference room phone, and dialed.

“Asher,” Levi said, to the Rabbi, “we need a plan.”

The Rabbi, still standing, placed the handset back on the receiver. 

“The way I see it, we have to act now,” Levi said. “We must dispose of this invention before it disposes us.”

“But Sosha is right, Levi,” the Rabbi said. “Avram’s machine will change the world. Progress! Millions of people across the globe no longer need to go hungry. This could be the greatest invention since wheat. Not just for matzah. We can give the world an endless supply of any wheat product, of say–bagels.”

“People will have bagels, and that is good,” said Moses, speaking calmly and softly. 

“Yes,” the Rabbi said.

“What of the farmers?” Moses said.

“They can have free bagels, too,” the Rabbi said.

“But what of their farms, what of their jobs?” Moses said. “There’ll be no wheat to grow. What of the workers the farmers employ? What of the companies that make the tractors and the harvesters?”

“And the fertilizer manufacturers?” Levi said. “And the companies that make farm clothing. One industry after another, gone overnight. This machine is not heaven sent, Asher. It’s from the Devil. It’s the Devil’s matzah! It’s going to make us all poor. It’s Communism, I say, Communism, that’s what it is.”

“That’s right, Asher,” Moses said, “it will be the end of civilization as we know it. This boy, Avram, oh, I’m sure he means well, but we can’t be running around giving away food. It will upset the natural order. It’s against God, Rabbi, if I may respectfully suggest. After all, did not God command that man must work for his daily bread?”

“Yes, I see now,” said the Rabbi, plopping back dejectedly into his chair. “But what can we do?”

“We can buy it from Avram,” Moses said, “then destroy it.”

The Rabbi picked up the phone handset again. “Mildred, have Avram sent to the conference room at once.”

 The three men spoke desultorily while they waited. Wasn’t it a bit chilly this morning? Isn’t that an interesting houndstooth pattern on the Rabbi’s new suit? Can you believe the price of tea these days? A few minutes later, all three were hovering over Avram, who was seated at the conference room table. Moses slipped a white envelope onto the table, just under Avram’s nose. 

“What’s this?” Avram asked.

“We think your invention is brilliant,” Moses said. Avram beamed. “We’d like to buy it, Avram,” Moses said. “You’re young, after all, an inventor, no need to trouble yourself with the mundane details of business. We’ll handle all of that for you.”

“Splendid!” Avram said. “And then you’ll use it to feed the world.”

“Avram,” the Rabbi said quietly, placing a hand on one of Avram’s shoulders, “we don’t want to bring the machine into production.” 

“But what do you mean?” Avram asked, confused.

“Think of the farmers,” the Rabbi said.

“And the farm workers,” Levi said.

“And the companies that make farm equipment, and fertilizers, and farm clothes, and tools–a host of industries. What’s to become of the thousands of workers–the tens of thousands–that will be put out of work?” Moses said. “What of them, of their livelihoods, of their families?”

“We can’t have Communism, Avram,” Levi said, “we’re not in Sweden.”

“We must think of the people,” Moses said.

Avram’s face tightened. “Oh, I see” he whispered.

“Look inside the envelope,” Moses said. “There’s a signed I.O.U. in there, enough to make you a rich man. You’ll be set for life.”

“Yes,” the Rabbi agreed. “You and Sosha.”

“I see,” Avram murmured. 

Moses handed a pen to Avram.

“Just sign your name in agreement, and you’ll never have another worry. You’ll be comfortable for the rest of your life.”

Avram took the pen from Moses’s hand. He slid the I.O.U. out from the envelope and was startled to read the seven-figure number written on it. Avram had never dreamt of such a sum. He moved the pen to the paper. As he began to sign his name, his eyes closed, and he suddenly glimpsed into his future. He saw a large, cozy farmhouse, with a white picket fence, and little children darting about the fields. There was Sosha, standing on the farmer’s porch, as beautiful as ever, beckoning for him to come in and warm himself by the fire. He felt the chill, thin air on his cheeks, heard twigs snapping under his fine leather boots as he strode towards his beloved, and he smelled sweet-sour autumnal apples decomposing atop beds of musty leaves. He sighed contentedly while his hand began moving the pen to form the letters of his name. 

Then, in his reverie, something changed. Weary, gray, gaunt faces of men, women and children in tattered clothing appeared, pressing in from the edges of his dreamscape. First a few, then a few dozen, then hundreds—thousands. They were poor; they were hungry. They pressed in closer and closer to the farm, thousands, millions of starving, lost souls. They stretched open their mouths to scream for help, but they had no voices. As they pressed in ever closer, Avram’s face grew dark. His wild eyes shot open. He bolted up from the chair, flung the pen across the room, then momentarily froze—as motionless as Lot’s wife who, after disobeying God and looking back at the destruction of Sodom, was turned into a pillar of salt.

“No, I shall not sign,” Avram whispered. “You’re all mad!” he cried, then he dashed out through the conference room doors. 

“What should we do,” the Rabbi asked, looking at the other two men.

“Either we destroy that machine,” Moses said, “or we destroy that man—before he destroys us.”

“God Lord, Moses, I can never condone violence,” the Rabbi said.

“You’ll have violence when millions lose their livelihoods.”

“So, what should we do?” the Rabbi said.

“We should offer more money,” Levi said.

“Avram doesn’t care about money,” the Rabbi said, “he’s young, he hasn’t a care in the world.” 

“He cares about Sosha,” Moses said.

The Rabbi sighed, slowly nodding his head.

That night, the Rabbi knocked lightly on Sosha’s bedroom door. 

“So, you see, Sosha,” he whispered gently, sitting on the edge of the bed, and holding her hands, “we just want you to talk to Avram. To talk some sense into him. He’s a dreamer, but he appears not to grasp that his dream will put millions out of work. He’ll listen to you, Sosha.”

“I see, Father. So you want to offer me up, is that it?”

“No, Sosha, I just want to help the people.”

“Which people, Father?”

“You’ve never been poor, Sosha. It wouldn’t suit you.”

The next day, Sosha met Avram at the factory with a picnic lunch. They strolled to a nearby park. Together they spread out a blanket on the grass, then put out food and drinks, along with the box of magic machine matzah Avram brought. Matzah made with the wheat from his new miracle. It was a fine, crisp, sunny Fall day. As Avram began to eat, Sosha caressed his hand.

“Avram,” Sosha said, “Father told me he wants to purchase your invention.”

Avram placed the sandwich on the napkin.

“He said you’ll be a rich man.”

Avram scowled. “He doesn’t want to use my invention. It’s all I have.”

“You’d have me, Avram,” she trilled, caressing his arm.

“Oh, Sosha!” he cried, hugging her hard. They had been dating only awhile, and Avram now confessed his love. Then he hugged Sosha even harder, eyes closed, tears of joy on his cheeks. Then, eyes still shut, he glimpsed the future again. The farmhouse, lovely Sosha beckoning him in, little ones scampering about, all safely behind a tidy white picket fence. Then they appeared once more—the hundreds, the thousands of gray, gaunt, starving people, stretching their mouths open wide in silent screams. 

  “I can’t take their money,” Avram said. 

“Not even for me?” Sosha said.

“I’m sorry, Sosha. Not even for you. Not even for love. Some things are bigger than just two people.” 

“Oh, Avram!” she said, suddenly jumping up from the blanket. “Thank God!”

“What do you mean?”

“If you told me you would take the money, I would never speak to you again. Let’s go tell Father the news. Then we can go to the newspapers—we can show them everything. The box of matzah, your diagrams of the machine. They can tell the world!”

When they walked back to the factory, they were surprised to see a large crowd gathered in front. Men and women in overalls, plaid shirts, and boots, some with pitchforks and rakes and shovels. Avram held Sosha’s hand tightly while clutching the box of miracle matzah under his arm. They stood in front of the crowd, of hundreds of people, at a distance.

Earlier that morning, Moses had called the local farm workers union to tell them of the new machine and of the danger to their livelihoods.

“What’s this, then?” Avram shouted.

“We want our jobs!” one man shouted at Avram. 

“If you feed everyone, what will we do?” said another.

“We need to work,” a woman said.

“We don’t want you Communists here! Go back to Sweden!”

Sosha feared for Avram. She held her arms out wide as if to try to block the swelling crowd, as men and women were stepping forward toward her and Avram. 

“They just want me,” Avram whispered to her. 

And with that, he was off, dashing madly away from the crowd, which began chasing him at full tilt. He scampered over a chain link fence into a maze of alleyways and side streets. He heard the thuds of boots on asphalt but, glancing behind, saw no one. He ran on, wildly, his long legs keeping him ahead of the chase, all the while still clutching the box of magic matzah. He ran on and on, having been quite fleet on his feet for his whole life. The angry mob kept up the chase, sometimes gaining on him a bit, but then Avram would again pull ahead. 

As he rounded the corner past Daniela’s Violin Studio, on Exodus Street, he slowed momentarily to listen to the maestro’s sweet strains of Mendelsohn’s concerto wafting through her open windows. Then he raced on. He may have got away, too, had it not been for the good bit of dog poo which the maestro’s poodle had deposited at the far end of the street. 

When the crowd got up to him, Avram was lying on his back in the street. The crowd stopped running and began walking toward him slowly. He thought he was in for a beating—or worse. The box of matzah was on the asphalt next to him. He stood up slowly, the matzah box in hand. 

Avram faced the crowd of men and women with clenched fists, and tight, angry faces.

“I, I just wanted to help people,” Avram stammered.

The crowd was silent, moving towards him.

“I wanted to feed people. That’s all. See.” 

Avram opened the top of the matzah box in order to remove a large square matzah to show the crowd. But his face took on a strange, puzzled expression when his hand entered the box. His fingers felt only crumbs, a thousand minuscule crumbs. Avram turned the box upside down and shook it. A dust cloud of matzah crumbs fell from the box and blew away with a bit of wind. Avram looked in the box—it was empty.

The cloud of matzah dust swirled toward the crowd and then evaporated. Everyone paused, then began to laugh.

“It’s just dust,” someone hollered. “All dust.”

“It’s a fraud, it doesn’t work, there’s no miracle!” another said. 

“Our jobs are saved!”

The crowd began to disperse, leaving Avram slowly shaking the upside-down matzah box in disbelief. 

“The molecules are unstable,” Avram muttered, “causing faulty reformulation of the polymers. I only need to adjust the self-generation of proteins and carbohydrates to enhance the stability.” He smiled, knowing this was an easy fix. 

The next morning, Avram met Sosha at the train station. They were leaving together. They hugged and kissed inside the terminal, waiting to elope, waiting for the train that would take them to their new life. 

Moses and Levi had smashed the miracle matzah machine to smithereens. But no matter. Avram smiled as he patted the coat pocket in which he had the original lab notes and plans for the machine, as well as the modifications he had noted to ensure the stability of the wheat the machine would produce. He would use the notes to make a new, even better machine. In revising the design, he had a God-given epiphany. He told Sosha about it now while they embraced. 

“Not only wheat,” he whispered to Sosha. “We can invent machines that will make corn, rice, and barley.”

“Oh, Avram,” Sosha exclaimed, “the world is going to love you!”

 

Jeffrey M. Feingold’s stories, published widely in literary journals, have been nominated for the PEN America Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers, the Pushcart Prize, and the Best American Short Stories. His first short story collection, The Black Hole Pastrami, won multiple book awards, including the National Indie Excellence Award. This was followed in the same year with his second collection, There Is No Death in Finding Nemo, which received numerous awards. Jeffrey’s third collection, A Fine Madness, was published in late 2024. Jeffrey resides with family in Boston, Massachusetts.