—We hit his van.—You hit his van? This is what comes of driving on Sabbath. Accidents. God’s judgment on you.
—It wasn’t God. We drove into him on purpose.—On purpose? You did this to my Cadillac on purpose?
—And I wasn’t driving. Rachel was driving. —Rachel drove the car? You steal my car and you give it to Rachel and you tell her to drive it into a van?
—I didn’t steal it.—Didn’t steal it? You call it what, when you don’t ask to take my car and you take it and you let someone else drive it and you wreck it? You call that borrowing?
—Ma, please.
The big old lady raises her hands, turns and walks into the house.
—Yes, of course, you have things to do. What business of mine is it what you do in my house or how you stole my car and what you did to smash it up? Do what you have to do.
Axler watches her with his hands on his hips.
—Fuck.
He kicks the crumpled fender of his mom’s car.
—Fuck.
He looks at me lying between the two cars on the concrete garage floor.
—Are you smiling at something?
I don’t say anything, my mouth still being gagged by leather straps.
He points.
—Get that off him.
Someone cuts the straps around my head.
I work my jaw, but I don’t bite anyone.
Axler looks at me again.
—I asked were you smiling at something?
I tongue a thick scab at the corner of my mouth.
—Naw, I wasn’t smiling at nothing.
—Good.
—Just kind of surprised.
He pushes his hat to the back of his head.
—About what?
I look at the door into the house where his mom disappeared.
—About how all those Jewish mothers jokes are so dead-on.
He starts kicking my face.
OK, figure talking about someone’s mama is never a good idea.
—Axler!
He stops kicking my face.
—Papa.
Through the blood in my eyes I see the man in shirtsleeves who has come out of the house, a wreath of dark curly hair around the bald spot not quite covered by his yarmulke, a book in his hand, index finger tucked between pages to mark his place.
He looks at me and Stretch on the floor. He looks at the blood-spattered young men shifting from foot to foot. He looks at the ruined fender of his wife’s car. He looks at his son and rubs his forehead with the back of his wrist.
Axler opens his mouth.
His father holds his hand out.
—No. Not now.
He points at Stretch and me.
—Cover their heads and bring them to the temple.
He looks at the fender again and shakes his head.
—Your mother’s car, of all things.
Harm is already in the temple in an ankle-length skirt, loose blouse and headscarf, sitting erect on a bench. Vendetta’s head is in her lap, the healing bones back inside her skin.
Across the aisle with the other men, I shake my head, trying to do something about the itch under the small circle of black felt they pinned to my hair.
I look at one of the young men that bracket me.
—Buddy, could you scratch my head?
He looks at his partner. His partner shrugs. He looks to the altar where Axler and his father stand in front of the arc, whispering.
—Rebbe?
Axler’s father turns.
—Yes?
—He wants me to scratch his head.
The Rebbe pats the top of his own head.
—A man with his hands tied has an itch on top of his head and asks you to scratch it for him. This needs a Rebbe to tell you what to do?
The kid raises his hand toward my head, hesitates, looks again at the Rebbe.
The Rebbe throws his arms up.
—Scratch. Scratch. Give the man some relief.
The kid scratches my head.
The Rebbe watches.
—You’re from Manhattan?
My head stops itching. I move it out from under the kid’s hand.
—Yeah.
Axler steps to his father and starts whispering again and his father waves him off.
—Axler, I’m talking to the man. Where in Manhattan?
—He’s from the Coalition.
The Rebbe looks at Stretch.
—Did I ask you?
—You don’t gotta ask me, I’m telling. I’m the only one in this room knows the guy’s story.
—Except the guy himself, of course.
Stretch snorts.
—Like he’s gonna tell you. Like the guy’s from the Coalition and he’s gonna tell you what he’s doing here.
The Rebbe comes down the aisle, stops next to my bench.
—The Coalition, is that right?
I don’t say anything.
—You didn’t hear the question?
I shift, try to find a way of sitting on the bench with my wrists and ankles bound that doesn’t make the hole in my thigh throb or my ribs grate or my face ache.
—Sorry, got lost in a little déjà vu there.
—This seems familiar to you? The temple? Us?
—No, being beaten and tied up and listening to some asshole try to frame my ass seems familiar. Swear I’ve gone through this shit before.
He taps one of my escorts on the shoulder and the kid gets up and the Rebbe takes his place.
—You’re not from the Coalition, then?
—Fuck is he gonna say?
The Rebbe shakes a finger at Stretch.
—You want me to have them gag you again? Yes? No? No. So be quiet for a moment. What my sister saw in you, all the talking without ever listening. A midget, I could almost be proud she was blind to such a thing, loved you despite your infirmity, but the talking and the cursing and never waiting to listen to anyone else, it’s a frustration.
—Fuck you, Moishe.
The Rebbe looks at me.
—See the mouth on him. With or without those grotesque teeth, the mouth. My sister, God love her and comfort her, she thought he was funny. She thought he was clever. To say fuck is clever? This is wit?
I look at Stretch, look back at the Rebbe.
—Fuck do I care.
He purses his lips, covers them with his fist, nods.
—Yes, you’re from Manhattan. It’s in your voice, your accent. And in your attitude. And an attitude like that, I would not be surprised if you are from the Coalition.
—He is, man, that’s what I’m telling you.
The Rebbe bangs his fist on the back of Stretch’s pew.
—Abe! If I have to ask you again to be quiet in the temple while I am speaking. I will be very upset if I have to do that. I did not tell these boys to do what they did.
He looks at his son, still by the Torah and the arc.
—I did not tell my son to abuse the Sabbath in this way.
—Dad!
—Shht! The things they’ve done, they raise grave questions. But they are done. Too late to change them. You are here. The girls are here. This man is here. Now there is nothing but to determine how best to proceed. And when you talk out of turn, you cloud the matter. And when you speak, Abe, it makes me think that perhaps you wish to cloud the matter. And that makes me regard you with doubt. So be quiet, Abe. For the sake of whatever passed between you and my sister. For the sake of my nieces. Be quiet.
The kid who scratched my head holds up a finger.
—There’s also the other girl.
The Rebbe looks at him.
—What?
Axler comes down the aisle.
—It’s nothing, Dad, a shiksa. She was there.
The Rebbe stands.
—Where is she?
Axler looks at the guy who opened his mouth and slits his eyes.
—She’s at my place. With the Lucys.
—What have I told y
ou about that word? I raised you to use that word?
—No.
—Name them with respect.
—She’s with Rachel and Leah of the Tribe of Benjamin of the Chosen.
—Get her, bring her here.
Axler points at one of the other guys.
—Go on, get her.
The Rebbe steps to his son, looks up at him.
—No, you. You go and get this woman and cover her head and bring her here. You.
Axler bites the inside of his lip, nods, walks around his father and leaves the little temple built just behind his father’s house.
The Rebbe comes and sits next to me again and sighs.
—It won’t be long. His place he calls it. A room above our garage and he calls it his place.
He looks up at the ceiling, talks to whatever lives up there.
—No hurry, but he could move out soon, God? Anytime you see fit, but soon perhaps?
He drops his face, looks at me, smiles.
—The prayers of a father.
I’ve seen worse, but Lydia looks bad.
Someone’s removed the arrows from her abdomen and legs and done a shit job of it. They left the one in her throat, afraid they’d take her esophagus out with it, I suppose. Or maybe they like the way it looks there.
The Rebbe watches as they lay her on the pew behind Harm and Vendetta, a scarf tied round her head. He gets up and walks over and bends and inspects the raggedly bandaged wounds and the arrow in her neck.
—This was poorly done.
Axler rubs the back of his neck.
—She’s dangerous, Papa. She shot Matthew and David and Hesch.
Three of the boys touch holes in their black garments.
Axler takes his hand from the back of his neck.
—And she killed Selig.
He points at me.
—This one killed Chaim. And she killed Selig.
The Rebbe puts his index finger on the notched end of the arrow.
—Chaim and Selig. Selig was with you?
—Yes.
—Selig. His brother, I am not surprised, but Selig is a scholar.
He looks at me.
—A smart and a gentle boy. Promising. More than promising. A Rebbe born.
I glance at Axler.
—Not my problem, I killed the other one.
The Rebbe walks to a cabinet on the far wall.
—Always you are like this when you have killed? Lighthearted? Making jokes?
I ignore him, not having made a joke.
He comes back to Lydia with a small black doctor’s bag, sets it on the bench next to her head and opens it.
—I’ll need a cutter.
He opens and closes his hand as if squeezing something.
—In the garage, with the garden tools, there should be something.
One of the boys hurries out.
Axler puts a hand on his father’s shoulder.
—Papa, you shouldn’t. Let me do it. I’ve already broken the Sabbath.
The Rebbe pats his son’s hand.
—Yes, you have. Good of you to say so. And you think it will make it better now if you spare me the same? I have never broken Sabbath? Talked on the phone? Turned on a light? God will understand this. Will he understand what you have done, my son? Without studying the Moed, I cannot say. But this, helping a girl, he will understand.
The boy comes back with the bolt cutters.
Rebbe Moishe takes them, looks again at the arrow, holds it steady where it sticks from Lydia’s skin, fits the cutter around the shaft and firmly snips off the tip.
He takes two large paper-wrapped pads of gauze from his bag and rips them open.
—Some blood?
Axler shakes his head, points at Vendetta.
—We gave it to Hannah.
Harm turns in her seat and looks at him.
—Her name is Vendetta, dickface.
—Fuck off, slut.
—Better a slut than a mama’s boy.
—Whore, if it wasn’t for you, none of this would have happened!
—Sure, fucking blame us for wanting to have our own lives instead of being little baby factories for you small-dicked godmonkeys.
—The temple!
They look at the Rebbe.
—A little peace in the temple? Yes? Please? And if not peace, the imitation of it? And less of this language? A little respect.
Harm turns away.
—Fuck you too, Uncle Moishe.
Axler points at her.
—See, see, that’s how she is. I don’t even want her, Papa, I don’t even want to marry her, let alone have a child with her.
Harm gives a bark.
—Not to worry, cousin, you won’t be marrying me. And you sure as fuck won’t be doing anything with me to make a baby.
—Enough! Yes? Enough? Now. Enough. Axler, you said Leah and Rachel are here, yes?
—Yes, Papa.
—Can either give blood?
—Leah is on her period. Rachel gave some to David and to Matthew.
—How much?
—A pint.
—She is a healthy girl. She can give more. Bring her here.
One of the boys leaves and Axler goes to the altar for a small wood box with a bit of cloth wrapped around it.
Moishe presses one gauze pad around the shaft of the arrow where it emerges from Lydia’s neck, takes the other end of the arrow in his right hand, and draws it out in a long, smooth motion and drops it and claps another pad at the opposite end of the wound. Both pads are quickly stained red.
He cranes his neck and looks at me.
—She is something to you?
—Not much.
—Too bad for you. A beautiful girl. And strong. As much as she has bled out, she should be dead. But a little fresh blood, she will be heartened. She’ll be weak, but well enough.
He looks back at Lydia.
—That you should care so little for this woman. A shame. They are everything to us, our women. Everything comes from them. Our blood. Our faith. The Tribe of Benjamin would have died long ago. The women in our tribe, they can trace back to Benjamin, one of the sons of Jacob. Grandfather of the twelve tribes. Without the women, none of this is passed on.
Axler comes down the aisle with the box.
The Rebbe peels the gauze from the wounds on Lydia’s neck.
—See how strong she is? Wounds closed. So little blood, still strong enough to heal that much.
He takes the box from his son, unwraps the piece of cloth, drapes it over his shoulders, kisses the top of the box, says a prayer, opens it and takes out a small single-edged knife with a silver handle.
—This is why Hannah and Sarah are so important to us, yes?
Harm looks at the ceiling.
—Our names are Vendetta and Harm.
Moishe shakes the knife.
—Call yourself what you like, young lady, your names are Hannah and Sarah.
—Whatever.
He sets the little box aside.
—My sister’s girls. Is it a surprise they are as willful as she was? No.
He presses the knife to his forehead, mumbles another prayer, takes it away.
—My sister, running off to join the circus, of all things.
—It ain’t a circus, Moishe, it’s a freak show.
He faces Stretch.
—What did I say, Abe? About being quiet and listening, what did I say? Did I say to try doing that? I did. I’m certain I did.
Stretch lets out a long sigh and leans his head against the back of the pew and closes his eyes.
—Fine, I’m listening. Tell me when you want to stop fucking around and let me and my girls out of here.
The kid comes back with one of the Lucys that drove them around. A big girl, dark complexion, dark hair mostly hidden by a scarf, a plain long skirt and a blouse that matches the ones they put on Harm and Vendetta. She smells fresh, alive, the only thing I’ve smelled here that doesn’t carry the Vyr
us. All the blood I’ve lost, my mouth starts to water.
She goes to Moishe.
—Rebbe.
He cradles her cheek in his palm.
—Rachel.
He looks at me.
—This girl, a treasure. Pure faith in God.
—And in you, Rebbe.
—Shht, nonsense. A sin to even say it.
—I’m sorry, Rebbe.
He smiles.
—Don’t be sorry. I tease, I’m teasing. See, a good girl. She understands. Rachel. A wife of Jacob. And Leah, another wife, yes? Mothers of the twelve tribes.
He bares the girl’s forearm, revealing a long series of scars, white slash marks down the length of her arm.
—The word my son used, Lucy, a disrespectful word. These girls are of our tribe. A sacrifice, a great sacrifice they make to keep their blood sanguine. And kosher?
He grins.
—These girls have never seen a pig, let alone eaten any part of one.
He kisses her forehead.
—Blessed and washed and dieted as proper Jewesses. Blood like this, it is all that will do for us. She is not the only one, of course. But still, there are not enough like her. We’re forced to hunt in Bensonhurst and Borough Park and Bay Ridge. But these girls are the only way to be certain the blood is truly kosher. From one who keeps kosher. We’ve tried buying. Of course we have. But the market is an unsure thing, yes? One is never certain of what one is getting, yes? And not all merchants understand the importance of this to us. Rachel, she is a blessing. A true daughter of Benjamin.
He sits her on the bench with Lydia.
—The Tribe of Benjamin, the tribe we descend from, was cursed, yes? You know this?
I scoot so I face him.
—Christ, no.
He drops his head.
—About being a smartass, what can I say? Other than it is rude, what can I say? It is rude, yes?
—Sure, yes. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop.
—Yes, I’m not surprised. Yes. Benjamin. Cursed. The whole tribe. It’s a story from the Bible. Well known.
He places the knife to Rachel’s skin and slices deep and she gasps and he presses the open wound to Lydia’s mouth and Lydia’s lips wrap around it and she begins to nurse; a baby at her mother’s tit.
I flinch when the scent of the blood hits the air. Sweat on my brow, a small erection in my pants, I watch Lydia feed and think about ripping free of the straps binding me and tearing her from the girl and clawing the wound in her arm wider and filling my belly till I vomit blood.
Half the Blood of Brooklyn Page 12