Newspaper headlines blazed excited words that called out the sensational news of the "discovery of a bondage den in the south side of the fair city. Mrs. Jane Doege, a woman in her late forties, was apprehended by the police late last night for running a bondage den in the basement of home." Their wordage continued by describing the numerous sadistic acts she performed on her paying clientele, and the array of sexual devices and bondage contraptions. And, "ooh, ahh", the media exclaimed, "the list of her customers included two members of the city council, a well-known physician, etc., etc.. See page two for further details and photos."
Now you may ask what this had to do with pretzels. A pretzel, as we know, is a crisp, dry biscuit, usually in the form of a knot or stick, or in the figure eight, salted on the outside. Just listen to my story and you will understand.
Jacob Mellers, the hero of my story, was an affable, chubby fellow, mellow in age, with a florid face and flour white thinning hair. The only clue to his trade was his hands. He had the stubby plying fingers of a pretzel bender, or baker. The cheerful chap was living his remaining years in the bosom of his family in comfortable retirement, enjoying the fruits of his blessings. His pension was excellent due mainly to a bondage den.
Jacob Mellers was in the past years a phoenix that had risen from the ashes of the camps in his native country. Numbers on his arm were the only remnant of the memory of his family and close friends. Fortune blessed him in the immediate aftermath and he entered the Land of Opportunity. With his hand proudly raised he became a citizen of that fair land.
Jacob settled in a neighborhood of his fellow compatriots in a city along the mighty Atlantic. He remarried a plain and simple creature with the godly name of Esther, and within time their union was blessed with the pattering of six pairs of little feet. They both observed their religious duty and the Good Lord 'in turn' presented them with faithful friends.
Jacob Mellers, in order to support his growing family, returned to his trade, namely in baking pretzels. This knowledge was earned by working with his father in their small bakery in that city in Eastern Europe until the tramp of boots. Now once again he was back again to the delicious smell of baked pretzels. True, he knew and baked other delicacies of the bakery trade, but his specialty was his pretzels.
Jacob was fortunate in the choice of the premises for his bakery. It was in a small side street with a few two-storied houses that developers had forgotten. It was a quiet neighborhood well suited to his needs. Through the generosity of friendly institutions and an equally friendly bank he was able to purchase one of the houses. He established his workplace in the basement and in the floors above he raised his family.
The bakery thrived over the years and Jacob Meller's pretzels were tastefully known for their finger-thickness and crustiness. The children of the neighborhood delighted in his crisp chewy sticks sprinkled with sugar or cinnamon. Even the nearby Chinese laundryman was converted to this taste and became his first customer in the early hours of the day, "good moling, prezels, priz!" All and all his good name was connected with these baked delights.
Jacob was always busy from the early morning hours in the bakery bending and twisting the dough in figure eights and knots with his pudgy hands. At eight in the morning the aroma filled pretzels were ready for delivery to the small grocers in the vicinity. One of Esther's cousins, a slightly backward youth, who on a three-wheeled delivery bicycle followed Jacob's directions to the route and the payment required, always honestly obeyed.
Jacob Mellers knew of other baked cakes and flaky pies. He worked to order. A wedding cake was there for the first cut of the knife; fruit filled pies would be on the serving table for the homecoming party; cookies filled with chips of chocolate or drops of hard fruit would be grabbed by small hands at a children's birthday party.
The bakery, for the first few years was always a scene of busy hands with Jacob attending to the preparation and baking of his aromatic products. Esther, in blessed pregnancy, would work for a few hours during the day attending to the customers. And, off course, there were the schnorrers, elder gentlemen with time on their hands, sitting and talking and nibbling at baked confectionary set aside for them.
But, alas and alack, commercialism crept into the baker's life. Supermarkets opened and the small grocers slowly closed their doors; factories with never-ending machines turned out pretzels in bags by the score; deluxe patisseries served baked confectionary for the nouveu demand. The sound of ordering by customers in Jacob's establishment was slowly stilled to the demands of a few loyal friends.
Jacob Mellers still had the duty to provide for his family; his bakery was working at a loss and he faced ruin. The greying of his hair added to the problem as in his aging years there was little he could do to earn the bread. But the Good Lord, blessed be He, provided the answer to his dilemma. One might say it was fate when an electric maintenance worker dislocated his shoulder trying to lift a heavy drill whilst working near the bakery. His call out in pain alerted Jacob to the commotion in the street. The good man quickly understood the trouble with the worker, which he remembered from days under the jackboot when he was called to aid a tortured inmate. He pushed aside the electrician's workmates telling them he would deal with the matter quickly.
The worker was brought in the bakery and seated on a hard-backed chair. Then Jacob approached him and held the hurt shoulder with one hand and with the other hand grabbed the worker's arm and gave a hefty pull. There was cracking sound together with a yelp of pain, but within a second or two the electrician felt relief. Jacob's fingers massaged the shoulder with the deftness of a pretzel bender, which comforted the worker.
From then onwards Jacob's fame of alleviating pain in limbs and back muscles became renown. "Go to the Pretzel Bender," was the call to the sufferers and they made the pilgrimage to him. There and then Jacob Mellers turned his bakery into a massage parlor. He sold the oven with remorse, and remodeled the premises for his new calling. It was divided into two partitions; one, with the necessary furnishings, was the massage clinic; the other where Esther, then a pudgy figure, sat behind a desk ushering in the patients to Jacob's plying hands and arranging payment from the grateful. Business thrived and Jacob and his family prospered.
But, once again fate intervened. At the end of the ensuing years, the authorities were informed of a bondage den operating in the vicinity. Concerned citizens voiced complaints but the actual location of the den was not ascertained due to the greasing of the palms of a couple of city officials. The police were alerted and they kept watch.
A near neighbor alerted Jacob Mellers on one fateful night by telephone that his elder son had dislocated his shoulder during a nightly basketball game and needed attention. Despite the lateness of the hour Jacob agreed and he prepared himself and readied his massage parlor.
The side street, without the awareness of Jacob and the other residents, was always served by a stationary patrol car with two patrolmen at ease in their duties. One lawman being an elder with the Gaelic tongue; the other a young Afro learning the routine of patrolling the fair city.
Suddenly they were alerted to two men staggering slightly to lighted premises in the basement of a nearby dwelling. The older man was holding and helping the younger one to the direction of this establishment. The two officers left the comfort of their vehicle and crept quietly to where the two men entered. The curtain-covered windows added a mystery to the sight of the policemen.
As they neared the house they heard the cry of pain and all sorts of commotion. Rather loud notes with congratulating tones followed it. The words from the older man, "how much do I owe you?" was heard as being suspicious.
"This be it," the Gaelic voice whispered, "It's the bondage den!" The two officers quickly ran to their patrol car. The speaker of the two-way radio was opened and through the microphone the police headquarters heard of the discovery mixed with a great deal of fantasy. And afterwards the two officers sat back in comfort of their patrol car and dreamt of citations.
Within a few minutes an unmarked squad car pulled up behind them. Two beefy detectives alighted. They heard the excited Gaelic words mixed with words 'bondage den', 'bulging coat pockets' and the rest of the fantasy that quite nearly pictured a Dillinger mob in various nefarious operations. Plans were organized and the detectives, together with the two policemen, went to the premises of the massage parlor. The uniformed cops were directed to rear of the house, while the alert detectives crept down stairs to the basement. Guns were drawn and ready. Then one of the detectives kicked opened the door and with the classical shout to his lips called out, "don't move! Keep your hands raised!"
Jacob and Esther Mellers, as I related before, were living in blessed comfort in their elder years without a care or worry. Well it was partly due to the handsome compensation, which the city offered Jacob for that terrible mistake.
Norman A. Rubin of Afula, Israel is a former correspondent for the Continental News Service, USA. He's written on Near East culture and crafts, archaeology, history and politics; religious history and rites, etc. He's been featured in publications world wide - Jerusalem Post, Israel - Coin News, Minerva, Oriental Arts, etc. England - Ararat, Letter Arts Review, Archaeology, etc. USA - Spotlight, Japan - International B, Hong Kong. He's been a freelance writer for the past sixteen years of short stories of all genres - mystery, horror, humour, sexual customs, etc.