Чарли Андерс - Nebula Awards Showcase 2018

“Yes, just this once,” she said, bouncing on her toes. “With everything that goes with it.”

“Of course,” her father said. “I did a little overtime this week. I can ask Sarah who works over at the delicatessen for a couple pieces chicken, a loaf of bread, and maybe some soup and noodles, and I know we have some candles put by.”

“And you have Grandpa’s old prayer book,” she encouraged.

“Yes, I have that.”

“So, all we need is the wine!” Malka said triumphantly.

Her father’s face fell. “So, all we need is the wine.” He thought for a moment, then nodded. “Moshe will know. He knows everybody in the neighborhood; if anyone has any wine to sell, he’ll know about it.”

“It’s going to get dark soon,” said Malka. “Is it too late to ask?”

Her father smiled and stood. “Not too late at all. He’s probably in the park.”

“So, Abe,” Moshe said to Malka’s father, frowning, “you are going to betray your ideals and kowtow to the religious authorities? You, who were nearly sent to Siberia for writing articles linking religion to the consistent poverty of the masses? You, who were carried bodily out of your father’s synagogue for refusing to wear a hat at your brother’s wedding?”

Abe had immediately spotted Moshe, an older, slightly overweight man with thinning hair, on the well-worn bench where he habitually spent each summer evening. But after trying to explain what he needed only to be interrupted by Moshe’s irritable rant, Abe finally shrugged and walked a few steps away. Malka followed.

“There are some boys playing baseball over there,” he told her. “Why don’t you go enjoy the game and let me talk to Moshe by myself?”

“Okay, Papa,” Malka said, and ran off. Abe watched her for a moment, and then looked around. The small city park was full of people driven out of their apartments by the heat. Kids ran through screaming, taking advantage of the fact that their mothers were still cleaning up after dinner and therefore not looking out for misbehavior. Occasionally, one of the men who occupied the benches near the small plot of brown grass would stand and yell, “Sammy! Stop fighting with that boy!” Then, content to have done his duty by his offspring, he would sit down, and the kids would proceed as though nothing had happened.

Abe walked back to the bench and sat next to his friend, who now sat disconsolately batting a newspaper against his knee. “Moshe, just listen for a minute—”

But before he could finish, Moshe handed him his newspaper, climbed onto the bench, and pointed an accusing finger at a thin man who had just lit a cigarette two benches over.

“You!” Moshe yelled. “Harry! I have a bone to pick with you! What the hell were you doing writing that drek about the Pennsylvania steel strike? How dare you use racialism to try to cover up the crimes of the AFL in subverting the strike?”

“They were scabs!” the little man yelled back, gesturing with his cigarette. “The fact that they were Negroes is not an excuse!”

“They were workers who were trying to feed their families in the face of overwhelming oppression!” Moshe called back. “If the AFL had any respect for the people they were trying to organize, they could have brought all the workers into the union, and the bosses wouldn’t have been able to break the strike!”

“You ignore the social and cultural problems!” yelled Harry.

“You ignore the fact that you’re a schmuck!” roared Moshe.

“Will you get down and act like a human being for a minute?” asked Abe, hitting his friend with the newspaper. “I have a problem!”

Moshe shrugged and climbed down. At the other bench, Harry made an obscene gesture and went back to dourly sucking on his cigarette.

“Okay, I’m down,” said Moshe. “So, tell me, what’s your problem?”

“Like I was saying,” said Abe, “I’m going to have a Sabbath meal.”

Moshe squinted at him. “Nu?” he asked. “You’ve got yourself a girlfriend finally?”

Abe shook his head irritably. “No, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Too bad,” his friend said, crossing his legs and surveying the park around him. “You can only mourn so long, you know. A young man like you, he shouldn’t be alone like some alter kocker like me.”

Abe smiled despite himself. “No, I just…” He looked for a moment to where Malka stood with a boy just a little taller than her, both watching the baseball game. That must be her new friend, he thought, probably from the next neighborhood over. His clothes seemed a bit too small for his growing frame; Abe wondered whether he had parents and, if so, whether they couldn’t afford to dress their child properly.

“It’s just this once,” he finally said. “A gift for a child.”

“Okay,” said Moshe. “So, what do you want from me? Absolution for abrogating your political ideals?”

“I want wine.”

“Ah.” Moshe turned and looked at Abe. “I see. You’ve got the prayer book, you’ve got the candles, you’ve got the challah. But the alcohol, that’s another thing. You couldn’t have come up with this idea last year, before the geniuses in Washington gave us the gift of Prohibition?”

“I want to do it right,” said Abe. “No grape juice and nothing made in somebody’s bathtub. And nothing illegal—I don’t want to make the gangsters any richer than they are.”

“Well…” Moshe shrugged. “If you’re going to make this an ethical issue, then I can’t help.”

“Oh, come on,” Abe said impatiently. “It’s only been a few months since Prohibition went into effect. I’m sure somebody’s got to have a few bottles of wine stashed away.”

“I’m sure they do,” Moshe said. “But they’re not going to give them to you. And don’t look at me,” he added quickly. “What I got stashed away isn’t what you drink at the Sabbath table.”

“Hell.” Abe stood and shook his head. “I made a promise. You got a cigarette?”

Moshe handed him one and then, as Abe lit a match, said, “Hey, why don’t you go find a rabbi?”

Abe blew out some smoke. “I said I wanted to make one Sabbath meal. I didn’t say I wanted to attend services.”

Moshe laughed. “No, I mean for your wine. When Congress passed Prohibition, the rabbis and priests and other religious big shots, they put up a fuss, so now they get to buy a certain amount for their congregations. You want some booze? Go to a rabbi.”

Abe stared at him. “You’re joking, right?”

Moshe continued to grin. “Truth. I heard it from a Chassidic friend of mine. We get together, play a little chess, argue. He told me that he had to go with his reb to the authorities because the old man can’t speak English, so they could sign the papers and prove he was a real rabbi. Now he’s got the right to buy a few cases a year so the families can say the blessing on the Sabbath and get drunk on Passover.”

Abe nodded, amused. “Figures.” He thought for a moment. “There’s a shul over on Livonia Avenue where my friend’s son had his bar mitzvah. Maybe I should try there.”

“If you’ve got a friend who goes there,” Moshe suggested, “why not simply get the wine from him?”

Abe took a long drag on his cigarette and shook his head. “No, I don’t want to get him in trouble with his rabbi. I’ll go ask myself. Thanks, Moshe.”

“Think nothing of it.” Suddenly Moshe’s eyes narrowed, and he jumped up onto the bench again, yelling to a man entering the park, “Joe, you capitalist sonovabitch! I saw that letter you wrote in the Daily Forward …”

Abe walked over to his daughter. “You heard?” he asked quietly. “We’ll go over to the synagogue right now and see what the rabbi can do for us.”