He’s no Jack London hero, not a gold seeker or gold grubber roaming the deserts of California or Alaska with a craving for gold, feverish, with knives and pistols in his holster. 

Itzikl is a Stashever ^{5 5}  A Yiddish term for someone from Stashev (Staszów, in Polish). from Poland. He’s one of these Jews who went looking for leftover gold in the villages of Brazil, wandering into the houses of people who don’t know the value of yellow metals that lie, like scrap, in old-fashioned furniture from colonial times, a souvenir from the Portuguese heroes with their swords. On the roads, they repeat in a monotone: “I am buying old, cracked, rusty gold; old gold teeth, broken necklaces.” 

When a goldklaper ^{6 6}  Peddler, in Yiddish. gets his hands on a piece of that “old rusty” gold, you can bet he’ll keep it, whether he pays properly or cheats. Jewish goldklapers and Jack London’s gold prospectors and adventurers alike share a fiery imagination. The Jack London types, though, are silent and stubborn; the Jewish gold seekers, on the other hand, are poets and braggarts. 

When Itzikl arrived here from Stashev, many of his fellow countrymen had already made it in business, some from peddling, others from that same gold. Itzikl, having toiled some time in other commerce, launched himself into the gold trade with all his heart and that proverbial hunger for livelihood. 

No one knows whether he succeeded after years of klapering. But he’s the much-vaunted, fantastic hero of the Stashev goldklaper scene.

Every Sunday, they all gather around a coffeehouse table, and Itzikl recites his part:

“When I was a griner ^{7 7} Greenhorn, a newcomer. I used to earn one conto ^{8 8}  Conto was an informal term used in Brazil and Portugal to refer to one thousand milréis (1 conto = 1.000$000), a significant sum of money at the time. In the early twentieth century, one conto could be roughly equivalent to £50–£100, depending on the year and exchange rate. The term remained in colloquial use well into the twentieth century as shorthand for “a large amount of money.” a day, a conto a day.”

“From gold, Itzikl?”

“Not yet, at that time it wasn’t from gold . . . Back then, I’d do my ‘shipwreck’ act: I’d buy a raincoat in Bom Retiro ^{9 9} A traditional Jewish neighborhood in São Paulo. for forty milréis, ^{10 10} Brazilian currency of the time. cast it over my shoulders, and stroll up and down Santos, ^{11 11}  A coastal city and the nearest harbor to São Paulo. by the praie ^{12 12}  “Praia,” beach, with a Yiddish accent. where the fancy hotels and casinos are. I’d walk past the tables enough times for the rich folks to notice me. 

“‘Can I help you, senhor? ^{13 13} Sir   What are you looking for?’ they’d ask me. Gesturing with my hands, in English, I’d tell them: ‘Misters! My ship sank . . . I’ve lost everything! Not a single penny in my pocket. Only a raincoat from Manchester, it cost me twelve pounds. I’ll sell it for eight.’ 

“Sitting there in the casinos,” Itzikl goes on, “would be the rich fazendeiros, ^{14 14} Farmer.  as you know, well-fed, wanting to show off to their broads. When they’d hear about an English raincoat, a ‘Manchester original,’ they’d start haggling—everyone wanted to buy it. So I would earn back the cost: twelve pounds!

“As soon as I’d finish with one casino, I’d pick up another coat and do the same in a second casino: ‘A sunken ship’ . . . That’s how I earned a conto a day, a conto a day.”

The people at the table swell with laughter at Itzikl’s tall tales, which they’ve heard more than once. One of them, a Stashever, a tough little guy, speaks up. He’s a goldklaper who’s had success and now enjoys the boastful stories of the poor, as rich men do.

“Enough of the sunken ship, Itzikl. Tell us the story with the suspenders!”

“What’s there to tell? It’s a simple tale:

“When I was returning from Minas, ^{15 15}  Minas Gerais is a Brazilian state, a place known for its gold mines.  where I’d peddled a good hunk of gold, I stepped down at the station in Mozhin-dos-Cruzes ^{16 16}  Mogi das Cruzes, a city in São Paulo’s metropolitan area. Mozhin-dos-Cruzes reflects how speakers of Yiddish in Brazil commonly pronounced the name.  to have a cup of coffee. I met an acquaintance, a fazendeiro, and we started talking. We smoked a cigarette, and suddenly the train began to move. So I jump back onto the train—where I had left my pack of gold—and my suspender gets hooked to a post at the Mozhin-dos-Cruzes station . . . The train departs, and the suspender’s stretching and stretching . . .

“We get to the Norte ^{17 17}  North Station. station an hour later, and it’s then that the suspender slaps me hard. It snapped back all the way from Mogi!” 

Itzikl looks around at the audience. The group, successful goldklapers, relish his stories; coarse pleasure can be read on their faces. Meanwhile, Itzikl’s pale face, with its large and deep eyes, wears the mask of Mephistopheles. It won’t tell you the truth: Is he well-off, or is he a pauper? Some say he has money, plenty in the bank. Others say it’s the opposite: He’s a poor man who can’t even afford medicine for his children. 

“So, Itzikl, and what did you do this week? Was it a good one? Where’d you go peddling? Minas again?” the same klaper asks him. 

“Get me a coffee, and I’ll tell you how I earned a month’s pay in a single deal.”  

And Itzikl goes on spinning tales:

“It happened in Tevye’s ^{18 18}  Sholem Aleichem’s famous character. town, Vlakhlaklakois, that is, Aracaçabatuba. ^{19 19}  Vlakhlaklakois is a word drawn from the Book of Psalms meaning “dark and slippery.” Tevye uses it mockingly to taunt non-Jewish peasants who are unable to pronounce it. The comic reversal here is that, in the Brazilian context, it is the Jew who struggles to pronounce the “gentile” name Aracaçabatuba. There was a lot of gold there once . . . It abounded in all the chácaras. ^{20 20}  A small farm.  This one time, I went around all day long from one chácara to the next, from fazenda to sítio, ^{21 21}  A rural property, intermediate in size between a chácara and a fazenda. and nothing. Not a single deal. 

“I was barely dragging myself forward, I had no energy left, not even to return to the station and go back home. You know how it is: When we earn nothing, we get tired and lose all our strength. The sun was burning, a fire from the sky, and nowhere around to get something to drink. I thought to myself: I’ll still make a final effort and go to the biggest fazenda, the last one on the estrade. ^{22 22}  “Estrada,” road, with a Yiddish accent.  

“With my last remaining strength, I dragged myself to the gate and knocked three times with my stick. “A shvartser ^{23 23}  Shvartser (from Yiddish shvarts, meaning “black”) was historically used by Yiddish speakers in reference to Black people. While it may have once functioned as a neutral descriptor, especially in immigrant dialects, it has acquired pejorative connotations over time and is now considered offensive in most contexts. Its appearance here reflects the speech and attitudes of the period and setting. came out and asked: ‘O que deseja? ^{24 24}  “What can I do for you?” Who are you? What do you want?’ 

“I tell him: ‘I have some business with the landlord, with the fazendeiro. Go tell your boss that a russo ^{25 25}  Russian. In Brazilian usage, russo often functioned as a generic label for Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe, being in practice a synonym for “Jew.” Klapers were also known as russos da prestação (“installment Russians”). has a deal for him.’”

Itzikl pauses. He looks at his listeners contemptuously: “You know that I hate having to deal with servants. I always go straight to the boss.” 

“Hearing the word ‘russo,’ our dear landlord came down, greeted me with a respectful handshake, and asked: ‘What do you want to sell? Or perhaps you want to buy something?’ 

“I replied, short and sweet: ‘I’m buying gold! Old gold.’ I opened my wallet and showed him a document from the local government endorsing me, Itzikl from Stashev, to acquire gold for the Banco do Brasil. ^{26 26}  Brazil’s national bank. Anyhow, I don’t have to tell you that part . . .

“The fazendeiro says to me: ‘Do you see that chain that attaches the dog to the kennel? Tell me, russo, how much is it worth?’

“I glanced at it—uh-vah!—a golden chain, pure gold . . . It weighed around a pud ^{27 27}  Russian weight measure equivalent to thirty-six pounds. . . . I picked up my pliers, which I always carry with me, examined the chain, and tried to snap a few rings off. No way! Hard as steel! The landlord ordered an anvil and a heavy hammer to be brought, and with all our might, we managed to break off quite a few rings from the chain. I brought them to the Aracaçabatuba station in a wheelbarrow and paid the fazendeiro peanuts. We said farewell with a gulp of pinga, and when I arrived home, I told my wife the news: I broke the bank! A pud of gold!”

Itzikl says this last part dryly, almost gloomily, and it seems he’s even let out a quiet sigh. The goldklapers are astonished, even though they’re used to Itzikl’s exaggerations. Could this be true? With Itzikl, you never know . . .

One of them can’t take it anymore: a trifle, a pud of gold?! 

So he adds, “How low can you go? It was probably at least a little less than that . . .”  

“So be it, it’s a little less . . . Certainly half a pud . . .”

“Half a pud?! And no less?”

“So be it, a little less. Certainly one kilo . . .”

The audience, relieved, grows excited . . . The heavy-built Stashever addresses him sharply: “Tell us the truth, Itzikl, how much did you make with the fazendeiro in Aracaçabatuba?”

Itzikl raises his big, deep, and sad eyes, stares at his rough fellow countryman, and answers calmly: “You wanna know? Go there, you’ll find out. A piece of the chain is still hanging. But watch out for the dog . . .”