Chris Moriarty - The Inquisitor's Apprentice

Everyone laughed. Whatever else people said about Ruthie Kessler — and they said plenty — no one could deny that she made the best blintzes west of Bialystok.

“That’s funny,” Mrs. Kessler said while everyone else was still laughing. “I thought I had enough water, but I don’t. Now where’s that bucket got to?”

Sacha sighed and got up to look for the water bucket. But his mother found it first. “I’ll go,” she told him. “You rest up. You have a big day tomorrow.”

“You shouldn’t be out alone after dark,” Mr. Kessler objected. “If you don’t want Sacha to go, then I will.”

“You most certainly won’t! You’ve got no business being outside in the rain with that cough of yours!”

“What cough?” Sacha’s father snapped as if the mere suggestion that he was sick were a mortal insult. But then he promptly proved her point by coughing.

Mrs. Kessler snorted and stalked out the door, muttering that she’d made it all the way from Russia to the Lower East Side and wasn’t about to start being afraid of the dark now.

“Be careful, Ruthie!” Mrs. Lehrer called after her. “I saw someone down there the other night!”

No one listened. Mrs. Lehrer was nice — but crazy. Not that anyone ever actually came out and said she was crazy. They just shook their heads sadly and said things like “She came out of the pogroms, poor woman. What can you expect after what she’s been through?”

Sacha had worried about this when he was younger. After all, his own parents had survived the pogroms. Did that mean they might go crazy too? But finally he’d decided that Mrs. Lehrer’s craziness didn’t seem to be catching. Mostly it just amounted to pinching pennies so she could buy her sisters tickets to America and sewing all her savings into an old coat that she never took off because — as she told Sacha and Bekah at every possible opportunity— you never knew .

Mrs. Lehrer’s habit of seeing thieves in every shadow was understandable given the amount of cash she had sewn into her money coat. But everyone knew better than to pay any attention to it. So before the door had even closed behind Sacha’s mother, they’d all gone back to arguing about his apprenticeship.

“Don’t pay any attention to your Uncle Mordechai,” Mo told Sacha. “Being an Inquisitor is a good, honest profession. Why, Inquisitors have become mayors, senators … even president!”

“Right,” Bekah snorted. “And everyone knows how honest politicians are.”

Now it was Mr. Kessler’s turn to roll his eyes. “And you think Mordechai’s Wiccanist friends wouldn’t be just as bad the minute they got into power?”

“Well, they certainly couldn’t be any worse, could they?” Bekah crossed her arms defiantly. “Benjamin Franklin founded the Inquisitors to protect ordinary people from magical crime, and what do they do instead? Run around giving tickets to poor Mrs. Lassky while J. P. Morgaunt and the rest of those Wall Street Wizards get away with murder!”

“Bilking widows out of their life savings in the stock market might not be nice,” Mr. Kessler pointed out, “but it’s not exactly murder.”

“Besides,” Mo added, “the Inquisitors do catch rich men. They caught Meyer Minsky—”

“And he was out on parole six months later and running Magic, Inc., just like always. Besides, he’s a gangster. A Jewish gangster. When was the last time you saw an Astral or a Morgaunt or a Vanderbilk in prison?”

“Fine,” Sacha’s father teased. “Run upstairs and join the Wobblies. I’ve seen you talking to that skinny redhead up there. In my day if a boy and a girl liked each other, they did something about it, end of story. But if you’d rather run all over town making speeches about magic-workers’ rights, be my guest.”

Bekah tried to look outraged, but her face was so red that Sacha had to smother a laugh. He glanced at his father in amazement. Mr. Kessler worked such long hours that he was barely ever home except to eat and sleep — but judging by Bekah’s blushes, he’d spotted something that even their mother’s sharp eyes had missed. Sacha knew who the Wobblies were, of course: the Industrial Witches of the World, whose makeshift headquarters were located in a cheap rear flat on the top floor of the Kesslers’ own building. But obviously he was going to have to take a closer look at the idealistic young Wobblies who traipsed up and down the stairs past their apartment every day. Especially the redheads.

“I don’t even think about boys that way,” Bekah protested, still blushing furiously. “Especially not — I mean, I have no idea who you’re talking about!”

“Good,” their father said mildly. “Then I guess I don’t need to meet him.”

Bekah bit her lip. “And — and Mama doesn’t need to hear about him?”

“I’m sorry. are you saying you do know who I’m talking about?”

“Gee, Daddy, maybe you ought to join the Inquisitors instead of Sacha.”

Meanwhile Uncle Mordechai had finished with the Yiddish Daily Magic-Worker and picked up the Alphabet City Alchemist . The main headline screamed “The Robber Barons Are Stealing Our Magic!” in letters Sacha could read all the way across the table.

“Of course Bekah’s completely right about the Inquisitors,” Mordechai announced, as if the conversation had never strayed from politics in the first place. “Asking them to catch magical criminals is like setting a fox to guard the hen-house. Which just goes to prove my original point: America is a myth founded on a fable founded on a—”

But instead of finishing his speech Mordechai grabbed his pocket watch, read the time, and clapped a hand to his handsome head. “My God!” he cried. “I’m late for rehearsal! Again!”

He leapt from his chair, knocking over a pile of IWW newsletters, which knocked over Grandpa Kessler’s Collected Works of Maimonides in fourteen volumes, which toppled Bekah’s teetering stack of schoolbooks — and sent her civics essay slithering into the soup.

“Farewell and adieu!” Mordechai cried, ducking out on a fresh family debate — this one about how to get the soup stains out of Bekah’s homework and the taste of civics homework out of the soup. “I’d love to stay and help clean up, but we’re opening Sunday, and the show must go on!”

The rest of them spent the next several minutes blotting soup off of Bekah’s essay and hanging the damp pages out on the fire escape to dry. Then they listened to Mo Lehrer and Grandpa Kessler argue about whether Pentacle Stationery Supplies Indelible Ink was kosher or not — a thorny question because of the appalling rumors about what really went into it.

It was only when the soup boiled over that Sacha’s father looked up with a worried frown and asked, “Where’s your mother?”

MR. KESSLER SLAMMED his book down, jumped to his feet, and was gone before Sacha even knew he was leaving.

Cough or no cough, Sacha’s father took the steep stairs two at a time. Sacha stumbled headlong behind him, keeping one hand on the wall to steady himself in case he tripped over something in the pitch-black stairwell. He could hear Mo behind him, wheezing like a steam locomotive but still keeping up with them all the way down the stairs and across the garbage-strewn back lot.

By the time they made it past the privies and caught a glimpse of the water pump, Mr. Kessler was already walking back toward them. One look at his face told Sacha that something was very wrong.

“What is it?” he asked.

His father pointed to a splintered board leaning against the wall beside the pump. Two words had been chalked onto it in crooked capital letters that were already beginning to wash away in the rain: