The rabbi examined him for a minute or two more, then nodded. “No, I do remember you. You sat in a corner with your arms folded and glowered like the Angel of Death when the boy sang his Torah portion.”
Abe shrugged. “I promised his father I’d attend. I didn’t promise I’d participate.”
“So,” said the rabbi, “you are one of those new radicals. The ones who are too smart to believe in the Almighty.”
“I simply believe that we have to save ourselves rather than wait for the Almighty to do it for us,” Abe rejoined.
“And so,” said the rabbi, “since you obviously have no respect for the beliefs of your fathers, why are you here?”
Abe bit his lip, ready to turn and leave.
A small voice next to him asked, “Papa? Is it safe here?”
He looked down. Malka was standing next to him, looking troubled and a little frightened. “One moment,” he said to the rabbi and walked to the door, which was open to let the little available air in.
“Of course it’s safe, daughter,” he said quietly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well,” she began, “it’s just…there isn’t a good place to hide. I thought synagogues had to have good hiding places.”
His hand went out to touch her hair, to reassure her, but then stopped. “Malkele,” he whispered, “you run outside and play. You let your papa take care of this. Don’t worry about anything—it will all turn out fine.”
Her face cleared, as though whatever evil thoughts had troubled her had completely disappeared. “Okay, Papa!” she said, and left.
Abe took a breath and went back into the room, where the rabbi was waiting. “This is the story,” he said. “My little girl is…Well, she wants a Sabbath meal.”
The rabbi cocked his head. “So, nu? Your child has more sense than you do. So have the Sabbath meal.”
“For a Sabbath meal,” said Abe. “I need wine.” He paused and added. “I would be…grateful if you would help me with this.”
“I see.” The rabbi smiled ironically. “In other words, you want to make a party, maybe, for a few of your radical friends, and you thought, ‘The rabbi is allowed to get wine for his congregation for the Sabbath and for the Holy Days, and if I tell him I want it for my little girl …’”
Abe took a step forward, furious.
“You have the gall to call me a liar?” he growled. “You religious fanatics are all alike. I come to you with a simple request, a little wine so that I can make a Friday night blessing for my little girl, and what do you do? You spit in my face!”
“You spit on your people and your religion,” said the rabbi, his voice rising as well. “You come here because you can’t get drunk legally anymore, so you think you’ll maybe come and take advantage of the stupid, unworldly rabbi?” He also took a step forward, so that he was almost nose-to-nose with Abe. “You think I am some kind of idiot?”
Abe didn’t retreat. “I know you get more wine than you need,” he shouted. “I know how this goes. The authorities give you so much per person, so maybe you exaggerate the size of your congregation just a bit, hah? And sell the rest?”
The rabbi shrugged. “And what if I do?” he said. “Does this look like the shul of a rich bootlegger? I have greenhorns fresh off the boat who are trying to support large families, men who are trying to get their wives and children here, boys whose families can’t afford to buy them a prayer book for their bar mitzvah. And you, the radical, somebody who makes speeches about the rights of poor people, you would criticize me for selling a few extra bottles of wine?”
“And so if you’re willing to sell wine,” yelled Abe, “why not sell it to me, a fellow Jew, rather than some goyishe bootlegger?”
There was a pause, and both men stared at each other, breathing hard. “Because he doesn’t know any better,” the rabbi finally said. “You should. Now get out of my shul.”
Abe strode out, muttering, and headed down the block. After about five blocks, he had walked off his anger, and he slowed down, finally sitting heavily on the steps of a nearby stoop. “I’m sorry, Malka,” he said. “Maybe I can go find the people that the rabbi sells to …”
“But David said his father could get us the wine,” said Malka, sitting next to him. “David said that his father and his friends, they have a drugstore where they sell hooch to people who want them. Lots of hooch,” she repeated the word, seeming pleased at its grown-up sound.
Abe grinned. “Malka, my sweet little girl,” he said, “do you know what your mother would have done to me had she known that her baby was dealing in illegal alcohol? And by the way, I like your friend David. Very polite child.”
“He’s not a child,” Malka objected. “He’s almost thirteen!”
“Ah. Practically a man,” said Abe, stroking his chin. “So. And his father, the bootlegger—he would sell to someone not of his race?”
“Well, of course,” said Malka, a little unsure herself. The question hadn’t occurred to her. “David said that they were looking for somebody to buy the kosher wine, and who else to sell it to but somebody who can really use it?”
* * *
Even from the outside, the candy store didn’t look promising—or even open. The windows were pasted over with ads, some of which were peeling off; when Malka and her father looked through the glass, shading their eyes with one hand, it was too dark inside to see much.
“You stay out here,” her father finally said. “This is not a place for little girls.” He took a breath and pushed the door open. A tiny bell tinkled as he stepped through; Malka, too curious to obey, quietly went in after him and stood by the door, trying to make herself as small as possible.
The store looked as unfriendly inside as it did out. A long counter, which had obviously once been used to serve sodas and ice cream, ran along the right wall of the store; it was empty and streaked with dust, and the shelves behind it were bare except for a few glasses. At the back of the store, there was a display case in which a few cans and dry-looking cakes sat.
The rest of the small space was taken up by several round tables. Only one was occupied, and it was partially obscured by a haze of cigarette smoke. Malka squinted: Three men sat there, playing cards. One was short and fat, with the darkest skin Malka had ever seen; he scowled at the cards while a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. A second, much younger and slimmer, was carefully dressed in a brown suit with a red tie; he had a thin mustache, and his hair was slicked back so that it looked, Malka thought, like it was always wet.
The third man, she decided, must be David’s father. He had David’s long, thin face and slight build, but the humor that was always dancing in David’s wide eyes had long ago disappeared from his. A long, pale scar ran from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, intensifying his look of a man who wasn’t to be trifled with. As she watched, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flask. He took a pull and replaced it without taking his eyes off his cards.
Malka’s father waited for a minute or two, and then cleared his throat.
None of the three looked up. “I think you’re in the wrong store, white man,” the fat man said.
Malka’s father put his hands in his pockets. “I was told that I could purchase a bottle or two of wine here.”
“You a Fed?” asked the man with slicked-back hair. “Only a Fed would be stupid enough to walk in here by himself.”
“Ain’t no Fed,” the fat man said. “Listen to him. He’s a Jew. Ain’t no Fed Jews.”
“There’s Izzy Einstein,” said the man with the hair. “He arrested three guys in Coney just yesterday. I read it in the paper.”
“Too skinny to be Izzy Einstein,” said the fat man. “Nah, he’s just your everyday, ordinary white man who’s looking for some cheap booze.”
“I was told I could buy wine here,” repeated Malka’s father calmly, although Malka could see that his hands, which he kept in his pockets, were trembling. “I was told you had kosher wine.”
The man with the scar stood and came over as the other two watched. Now Malka could see that his suit was worn and not as clean as it could be; he walked slowly, carefully, as though he knew he wasn’t sober and didn’t want to give it away. When he reached Malka’s father, he stopped and waited. He didn’t acknowledge the boy who followed him solicitously, as though ready to catch his father should he fall.
Malka grinned and waved. “Hi, David,” she said, and then, aware that she might be calling attention to herself, whispered, “I didn’t see you before.”
David put his finger to his lips and shook his head.
“So?” Malka’s father asked. “You have wine for sale?”
“My landlord is a Jew,” said David’s father, challenging.
“So’s mine. And I’ll bet they’re both sons of bitches.”
There was a moment of silence. Malka held her breath. And then one corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe we can do business.” His two colleagues relaxed; the man with the hair swept up the cards and began shuffling them. “Where did you hear about me?”
“Your son David, here,” said Malka’s father. “He suggested I contact you.”
“My son David told you,” the man repeated, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” Malka’s father said, sounding puzzled. “Earlier today. Is there a problem?”
There was a pause, and then the man shook his head. “No, no problem. Yeah, I’ve got some of that kosher wine you were talking about. I can give you two bottles for three dollars each.”
Malka’s father took a breath. “That’s expensive.”
“Those are the prices.” The man shrugged. “Hard to get specialized product these days.”
David stood on his toes and whispered up at his father. The man didn’t look down at the boy, but bit his lip, then said, “Okay. I can give you the two bottles for five dollars. And that’s because you come with a—a family recommendation.”
“Done,” said Malka’s father. He put out a hand. “Abe Hirsch.”
David’s father took his hand. “Sam Richards,” he said. “You want to pick your merchandise up in the morning?”
Abe shook his head. “I’ve got to work early,” he said. “Can I pick it up after work?”
“Done,” Sam said.
Malka’s father turned and walked toward the door, then turned back. “I apologize,” he said, shaking his head. “I am an idiot. David, your son, has been invited to my house for dinner tomorrow night, and I have not asked his father’s permission. And of course, you are also invited as well.”
Sam stared at him. “You invited my son to your house for dinner?”
Abe shrugged.
“Hey, Sam,” called the well-dressed man, “you can’t go nowhere tomorrow night. We’ve got some business to take care of uptown at the Sugar Cane.”
Sam ignored his friend and looked at Malka, who stood next to her father, scratching an itch on her leg and grinning at the success of her plan. “This your little girl?”
It was Abe’s turn to stare. He looked down at Malka, who was nodding wildly, delighted at the idea of another guest at their Sabbath meal. He then looked back at Sam.
“Okay,” said Sam. “What time?”
“Around five p.m.,” Abe said, and gave the address.
“We don’t have to be uptown until nine,” Sam said to his friend. “Plenty of time.”
He turned back to Malka’s father. “Okay. I’ll bring the wine with me. But you make sure you have the money. Just because you’re feeding me—us—dinner don’t mean the drinks come free.”
“Of course,” said Abe.
* * *
At five p.m. the next evening, everything was ready. The table had been pulled away from the window and decorated with a white tablecloth (from the same woman who’d sold Abe a boiled chicken and a carrot tsimmes), settings for four, two extra chairs (borrowed from the carpenter who lived across the hall), two candles, and, at Abe’s place, his father’s old prayer book.
Abe, wearing his good jacket despite the heat, and with a borrowed yarmulke perched on his head, surveyed the scene. “Well, Malka?” he asked. “How does that look?”
“It’s perfect!” said Malka, running from one end of the room to the other to admire the table from different perspectives.
Almost on cue, somebody knocked on the door. “It’s David!” Malka yelled. “David, just a minute!”
“I’m sure he heard you,” said Abe, smiling. “The super in the basement probably heard you.” He walked over and opened the door.
Sam stood there, a small suitcase in his hand. He had obviously made some efforts toward improving his personal appearance: he was freshly shaven, wore a clean shirt, and had a spit-polish on his shoes.
David dashed out from behind his father. “You see!” he told Malka. “Everything worked out. My daddy brought the wine like he said, and I made him dress up, because I said it was going to be religious, and Mama wouldn’t have let him come to church all messed up. Right, Daddy?”
“You sure did, David,” said Sam, smiling. “Even made me wash behind my ears.” He then raised his eyes and looked hard at Abe, as if waiting to be challenged.
But Abe only nodded.
“Please sit down,” he said. “Be comfortable. Malka, stop dancing around like that; you’re making me dizzy.”
Malka obediently stopped twirling, but she still bounced a bit in place. “David, guess what? There’s a lady who lives across the alley from us who, when it’s hot, walks around all day in a man’s T-shirt and shorts. You can see her when she’s in the kitchen. It’s really funny. You want to come out on the fire escape and watch?”
David suddenly looked troubled and stared up at his father. “Is it okay, Daddy?” he asked. His lower lip trembled. “I don’t want to get anyone mad at me.”
Sam took a breath and, with an obvious effort, smiled at his son. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll be right here, keeping an eye on you. Nothing bad will happen.”
David’s face brightened, and he turned to Malka. “Let’s go,” he said. The two children ran to the window and clambered noisily onto the fire escape.
Sam put the suitcase on one of the chairs, opened it, and took out two bottles of wine. “Here they are,” he said. “Certified kosher, according to the man I got it from. You got the five bucks?”
Abe handed Sam five crumpled dollars. “Here you are,” he said, “as promised. You want a drink before we start?”
Sam nodded.
Abe picked up one of the bottles, looked at it for a moment, and then shook his head, exasperated. “Look at me, the genius,” he said. “I never thought about a corkscrew.”
Sam shrugged, took a small pocketknife out of his pocket, cut off the top of the cork, and pushed the rest into the bottle with his thumb. Abe took the bottle and poured generous helpings for both of them.
They each took a drink and looked outside, where Malka and David sat on the edge of the fire escape, her legs dangling over the side, his legs folded. A dirty pigeon fluttered down onto the railing and stared at the children, obviously hoping for a stray crumb. When none came, it started to clean itself.
David pointed to a window. “No, that’s not her,” said Malka. “That’s the man who lives next door to her. He has two dogs, and he’s not supposed to have any pets, so he’s always yelling at the dogs to stop barking, or he’ll get kicked out.” The children laughed. Startled, the bird flew away.
“So,” said Abe.
“Yeah,” said Sam.
“What happened?”
Sam took a breath, drained his glass, and poured another. “He had gone out to shoot rabbits,” he said slowly. “I had just got home from the trenches. We were living with my wife’s family in Alabama, and we were making plans to move up north to Chicago, where I could get work and David could get schooled better. He was sitting on the porch reading, and I got mad and told him not to be so lazy, get out there and shoot us some meat for dinn
er. When he wasn’t home by supper, I figured he got himself lost—he was always going off exploring and forgetting about what he was supposed to do.”
He looked off into the distance. “After dark, the preacher from my wife’s church came by and said that there had been trouble. A white woman over in the next county had complained that somebody had looked in her window when she was undressed. A lynch mob went out, and David saw them, got scared and ran. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but he was a Negro boy with a gun, and they caught him and …”
He choked for a moment, then reached for his glass and swallowed the entire thing at a gulp. Wordlessly, Abe refilled it.
“My wife and her sister and the other women, they went and took him down and brought him home. He was…They had cut him and burned him and…My boy. My baby.”
A single tear slowly made its way down Sam’s cheek, tracing the path of the scar.
“My wife and I—we didn’t get along so good after that. After a while I cut and run, came up here. And David, he came with me.”
For a moment, they just sat.
“We lived in Odessa,” said Abe, and, when Sam looked confused, added, “That’s a city in the Ukraine, near Russia. I moved there with the baby after my wife died. It was 1905, and there was a lot of unrest. Strikes, riots, people being shot down in the streets. Many people were angry. And when people get angry, they blame the Jews.”
He smiled sourly. “I and my friends, we were young and strong and rebellious. We were different from the generations before us. We weren’t going to sit around like the old men and wait to be slaughtered. I sent Malka to the synagogue with other children. There were hiding places there; they would be safe. And I went to help defend our homes.”
“At least you had that,” Sam said bitterly.
Abe shook his head. “We were idiots. We had no idea how many there would be, how organized. Hundreds were hurt and killed, my neighbors, my friends. Somebody hit me, I don’t know who or with what. I don’t remember what happened after that. I …”
He paused. “I do remember screaming and shouting all around me, houses burning, but it didn’t seem real, didn’t seem possible. I ran to the synagogue. I was going to get Malka, and we would leave this madness, go to America where people were sane, and children were safe.”
The History of Soul 2065 Page 4