The History of Soul 2065

by Barbara Krasnoff

  The path beyond the fallen tree was narrower than the other; in places, patches of grass and leaves left from last year’s autumn nearly obscured it, and they had to step carefully past bushes full of sharp twigs and brambles. Annie, who had been taught never to go on a hike without clear, painted blazes to show the way, asked, “Shouldn’t we mark the trail so we can find the way back?”

  “This is Prospect Park,” said Rachel confidently. “How large can this forest be? If we get lost, we just have to keep walking in the same direction and we’ll find our way out eventually.”

  Despite that, the path went on for a bit longer than either girl expected. Annie stopped once to pick some wildflowers that, despite the earliness of the season, were full grown; she thought she’d perhaps take them back and put them in a vase for the seder. “Have you ever seen anything so pretty?” she asked, holding them out and admiring them. Rachel grinned at her. “They are nice,” she admitted.

  They kept walking—and then abruptly the path opened up into a clearing.

  The two girls looked around, astonished. “I didn’t know there was anything like this in Prospect Park!” Annie exclaimed.

  “Neither did I,” Rachel admitted, “and I live right across the street.”

  The circular clearing was filled with grass and a few early flowers; the trunk of a long-dead tree lay along one side. The surrounding trees were large enough so that only a little sunlight filtered through their branches. “This is so cool!” Rachel said enthusiastically. “I bet we could have plays here. This can be the stage and that,” she pointed to the log, “can be the orchestra seats!”

  She immediately placed herself opposite the log and struck a pose. Annie, who was used to Rachel’s attacks of dramatic enthusiasm, obediently sat on the log, put down her flowers, and tried to look like an audience.

  “The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,” Rachel declaimed, waving her arms to indicate the wind. “The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding, riding, riding…”

  “Ribbon!” Annie suddenly squealed.

  “That’s what I said,” Rachel said, annoyed at the interruption, but then stopped as she saw her friend run to the edge of the clearing and pick something up with an air of triumph.

  “You were right!” Annie called, waving the small piece of faded ribbon in one hand. “You were right! Here it is!”

  “And there’s another!” Rachel had seen a flash of red just beyond where Annie stood. She ran over to it; Annie turned around and stared.

  A piece of bright red cloth, larger than the ribbon, was tied to a stick that had been stuck in the ground. Annie fingered the cloth curiously. “What do you think it is?” she asked. “A flag?”

  “Maybe it’s decorating a grave,” said Rachel. “Look, there’s a stone right next to it. Maybe someone’s buried there. A pet mouse or something.”

  “People don’t put flags next to graves,” Annie said doubtfully. “Unless they’re veterans or something, and then it’s an American flag.”

  “Well, let’s see,” Rachel said. “Help me.”

  Annie put the ribbon carefully in her pocket, and joined her friend in pulling at the rather heavy stone. After a few minutes, the girls managed to pull it up and over, exposing the dirt underneath.

  “There’s something buried here!” Rachel said happily. “I’m going to pull it up.”

  “Be careful,” whispered Annie, concerned that they might indeed be disturbing the interment of a pet or some other creature.

  “It’s a jar or a bottle or something like that,” said Rachel, and scraped at the dirt until she could pull the jar out. She examined it carefully. “It’s got a note inside! I’ll bet we’ve discovered the meeting place of two lovers, whose parents won’t let them marry, so they have to leave notes arranging trysts in this romantic glade!”

  She twisted the lid of the jar open, removed the paper, and carefully unfolded it. “It’s got writing on both sides. But it’s in Hebrew,” she said, disappointed. “I can’t read it.”

  Annie looked over her shoulder. “That isn’t Hebrew,” she said. “That’s Yiddish. It’s got vowels, and Hebrew doesn’t use vowels.” She added defensively, “I only know about it because my mom taught me the letters and a few words, and said she’d send me to Yiddish school if I wanted.”

  “Can you read it?” Rachel handed the note over, and Annie examined it for a moment. “Not really,” she finally admitted. “It’s in handwriting, and I can only read print, and only a little.” She looked at it more closely. “I think this is a name,” she said, pointing to the top of the page. “I’ve seen it in one of the readers my mom showed me. It says Chana.”

  Rachel sat back on her heels. “Chana?” she asked breathlessly. “Like your great-grandmother Chana?”

  Annie stared at her for a moment and then shook her head. “That doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “It can’t. In Borough Park where all the really religious Jews live I’ll bet there are lots and lots of Chanas.”

  “How about the other side?” Rachel asked. When Annie hesitated, she said, “Oh, come on. Please? I found your ribbon for you.”

  Annie put her finger to the top line of the paper and sounded out the letters silently, her lips moving as she tried to read the unfamiliar lettering. “The first word is something like “Tierer,” she said. “The second is…S…So…Sophie. I think.”

  “Or Sophia?” Rachel said and took back the paper as though it would tell her something she missed. “My great-grandmother’s name was Sophia.”

  The two girls stared at each other for a moment. Finally, Annie shook her head. “Don’t be silly,” Annie said. “My great-grandmother lived in Russia until she was a teenager and then came to America. Where did yours live?”

  “Germany,” said Rachel, remembering a chess game and a pair of antique earrings. “And she never came to America.”

  “So there. They lived way far apart and probably didn’t even have telephones, so they couldn’t have been friends. And look,” she pointed at the red cloth, “that’s not nearly as old as the ribbon. It’s practically new.”

  “Maybe,” Rachel said, undeterred, “we’ve time traveled. Like in Doctor Who.”

  “Or maybe it’s just a coincidence and we should put the note back where it belongs so that the person who is supposed to get it won’t miss it,” said Annie firmly. She folded the note and returned it to the jar. “Come on. It’s getting late.”

  Reluctantly, Rachel closed the lid, put the jar back in its hole and covered it up. The two girls patted down the earth and then, together, pushed the stone back to its former place. They sat back and regarded their handiwork.

  “Annie?” Rachel whispered. She thought again of the pond not far from the path to this clearing, where not too long ago she had helped her great-grandmother—whose name was written on this note. Who had said that she once knew a Russian girl named Chana. Was this clearing—and Annie’s ribbon—part of the same story?

  “Yes?” Annie asked.

  “What if this is really a magic place? What if that really is a note that your great-grandmother left for her best friend?”

  Annie shook her head, but she bit her lip as she considered the possibility. “Even if it is,” she finally said. “we did the right thing. We put everything back where it’s supposed to be.”

  “But that’s not enough,” said Rachel. “We should let them know that we’ve been here. That we know it’s them.” She looked at Annie. “We need to give them back the ribbon.”

  Annie reached into her pocket and pulled out the ribbon. She stroked it lightly with her thumb. “I told you—my mother will kill me,” she said reluctantly.

  “This is more important.” Rachel reached over and took Annie’s other hand in her own. “Don’t you see, this will show that we know.”

  “But we don’t know. Not really!” Annie looked down at the ribbon
and then at the red cloth. Then she took a deep breath and tied the ribbon to the stick, just above the cloth.

  “I guess I can think of something to tell my mom if she finds out,” she said. “And you’re right. This is more important.”

  Rachel nodded, and then looked down at her wristwatch. “Hey, we gotta go,” she said, suddenly alarmed. “My mom is going to be looking for us. We need to get dressed for the seder. Come on!” She jumped to her feet and dashed out of the clearing and down the path.

  Annie stood as well, but just as she was going to run after Rachel, she stopped and paused for a moment. The first drops of rain began to patter on the grass; a cool breeze blew through the clearing. Annie watched as the two pieces of cloth, bright red and faded blue, danced together in its wake and then tangled together.

  “Shalom, Chana,” she whispered. “Shalom, Sophia.”

  And then she turned and ran after her friend.

  The History of Soul 2065

  Annie and Rachel’s story continues

  1999

  It all started at Rachel’s first real seder.

  Until then, the only Passover seders she had attended had been at her Grandma Isabeau’s house, where she and several of her cousins—most of whom were older than she, and not very nice—sat at the end of the table while a relative of her grandfather (who died before Rachel was born) droned through incomprehensible Hebrew verses. The children were then conducted to their own table in the living room, where they threw pieces of matzoh at each other until one of the grownups came in and yelled at them.

  This year, however, Rachel was also going to the second-night seder that Aunt Susan—who lived with Uncle Mark, Rachel’s mother’s brother—held every year.

  She was a little frightened. Since, at age nine, she was going to be youngest person there—her best friend Annie, who came with them so Rachel wouldn’t be the only child, was four months older—Rachel was going to have to ask the ceremonial four questions.

  “She’s a little nervous,” her mother told her Aunt Susan as they took off their coats. “I told her that she didn’t have to say them if she doesn’t want to.”

  “Of course she’ll say them, Eileen,” Aunt Susan said, and she grinned at Rachel as though they were sharing a secret. “I’ve heard her recite. She has the makings of a damned good actress. She’ll do a fantastic job.”

  Despite her nervousness, Rachel grinned back. Rachel liked her aunt and uncle, especially because they never talked down to her.

  It was hard to move around in the living room, which was largely taken up with a long, rather unsteady metal folding table decorated with a bright blue paper tablecloth and white paper plates and cups. There were real knives and forks, and wine glasses, and two white-and-blue ceramic candle holders with tall blue candles in them.

  A bright purple paperback book sat at each place setting; Rachel picked one up and paged through it. It was a Hagaddah, the book that was used for the ceremonies before and after the meal. But unlike the one at her grandparents’ house, which was only in Hebrew and had nothing of interest in it, this one had a lot of English in it, and had lots of pictures and photographs of foreign looking people celebrating the holiday.

  Because the living room was so crowded, everyone had to sidle around the table in order to get to the dining room, which, because it was actually used as a sort of library, was nearly empty of furniture, and so had space for people to stand and chat. Rachel took the Hagaddah and she and Annie made their way to a corner.

  “You won’t tell about the ribbon?” Annie hissed as soon as they were away from the adults. “You promise?”

  “Of course! Don’t be silly. I’d get in trouble too,” Rachel said impatiently. “Here, let’s look at the pictures.” The two girls started to page through the book. But they lost interest quickly, and Rachel started describing the adults in the room to Annie in a careful whisper.

  “The man over there, the one with the beard? That’s Abram, an old friend of Uncle Mark’s. They were both in high school together.”

  “He’s bossy,” Annie observed. “And he interrupts all the time.”

  Rachel shrugged. “I don’t like him,” she said. “But Mom says it’s not polite to say so.”

  She pointed surreptitiously at a stout, smiling young woman who was talking to Abram. “That’s Yolanda, Aunt Susan’s best friend. She brought a pineapple for dessert. She’s studying to be a minister and used to live in Namibia.”

  Uncle Mark came into the kitchen with a quick stride, holding a thin brown bottle, and thrust it at Abram. “Here,” he said irritably. “Kosher enough for you? Oh, hi, Eileen. Glad you brought Rachel and—Annie, is it?—with you this year.” He kissed his sister on the cheek and ruffled Rachel’s hair.

  “Hi, Uncle Mark,” said Rachel. “It’s raining.”

  “Really hard,” Annie added, unwilling to be left out of the conversation.

  “Of course, it is,” said Uncle Mark. “God forbid we should have good weather on a holiday.”

  Abram, who appeared not to mind Uncle Mark’s tone, was examining the bottle carefully. “I don’t see anything problematic,” he said. “The reason I had a problem with the glaze you used last year was the corn syrup. Things need to be kosher for Passover.”

  “This from a man who has milk in his coffee with his hamburger,” said Uncle Mark, addressing the room at large. He grabbed the bottle back and returned to the kitchen.

  “Time to start,” Aunt Susan said loudly, and everyone wandered slowly into the living room and began to sit at the table.

  “So I was looking for something to watch the other day,” Abram said, as he started opening a bottle of wine, “and I stopped at a channel where a writer, a rabbi I think, was talking about a legend that there were originally only 600,000 souls in the universe. At some point after the creation, each soul broke into many pieces. Which means we are all actually made up of a piece of a soul, and when all the pieces of that soul find each other, part of the universe is healed and made whole.”

  Yolanda looked thoughtful. “How many pieces were in each soul, originally?”

  Abram shrugged. “I missed that part of it,” he said, handing her the bottle. “Some say that each soul was made up of two parts, and when a man and a woman find each other and marry, that is the entire soul. There is also some argument as to whether the souls truly blend during life or after death. But as with everything, it’s all a matter of interpretation.”

  Yolanda handed the bottle to Aunt Susan, who poured some for herself and Uncle Mark, and then passed it to Rachel’s mother. “Here,” she said, reaching across the table to another bottle, “we bought some grape juice for the girls.” She poured generous helpings into their wine cups.

  “Suppose that we’re all part of an original soul,” Yolanda said, leaning across the table, “is it possible that by coming together tonight, we’re helping to heal the universe? Would that include all of us?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Susan said. “After all, in this presumably enlightened age, we can assume that whatever fractured soul is involved, all the pieces aren’t necessarily Jewish. Here, it’s going to be a while before we eat,” and she broke a large flat matzoh into two pieces and handed them to the girls.

  Abram’s finger came up, a sure indication that he was going into lecture mode. “Actually,” he said. “Most rabbis would probably argue that the legends only refer to Jewish souls—not that they are saying that other souls aren’t valuable,” with a nod toward Yolanda, “but they aren’t part of the Jewish mythos.”

  “My father’s not Jewish,” said Annie, distressed. “Can’t I be part?”

  “Of course you can, Annie,” said Yolanda, frowning at Abram. “There is enough room for everyone.”

  “How many?” asked Rachel, carefully biting her matzoh into a circular pattern.

  “How many what?” Yolanda asked, puzzled.

  “Rooms in heaven?” said Rachel, and the two girls giggled.

 
“Exactly 652 and a half,” said Uncle Mark, sitting down. “The half is a bathroom. Which everyone has to line up for each morning.”

  The girls broke up and Susan blew a kiss at her husband.

  “You know, maybe it’s more like a union,” Uncle Mark continued. “That would make us all official members of, say, Soul 2065.”

  “Does our union have a good health plan?” asked Yolanda.

  Rachel’s mom smiled. “Maybe we should have tee shirts. ‘Member of Soul 2065.’ Or hats.”

  “Can I have one?” asked Rachel, immediately perking up at the idea of a present. Then she suddenly remembered. “Even if I get the four questions wrong?”

  “Of course,” Aunt Susan said. “And you won’t get them wrong. I promise. Even if you make a mistake, just pretend you did it on purpose, and everybody will believe you did it right. That’s what actresses do.”

  “Really?” Rachel brightened.

  “Really.” Aunt Susan grinned. She stood and tapped her wineglass with her knife. “I hereby declare that this meeting of Soul 2065 is called to order.” She sat down. “Now, let’s start the seder.”

  * * *

  Ten years later.

  Passover had come practically at the same time as Easter this year, which meant that Yolanda, who had pastoral duties in Minneapolis, wouldn’t be present. To make up for the loss, Rachel’s mom invited her friend Edward, who was getting a name for himself writing horror novels.

  “You wrote Bite Me, Darling?” asked Annie, awestruck, as they took their places at the table. “That is just so incredible!” At age 19, both Rachel and Annie were heavily into vampires, and Edward’s latest, in which a Jamaican lesbian vampire works the late-night shift at a NYC cable station, was right up their alley.