Чарли Андерс - Nebula Awards Showcase 2018

“Yes, Papa,” Malka said, and added, “This is David. He’s my new friend that I told you about. David, this is my father.”

“How do you do, Mr. Hirsch?” asked David politely.

“How do you do, David?” replied Abe. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m glad Malka has made a new friend.”

“Mr. Hirsch,” said David, “you don’t have to go to that rabbi if you don’t want to. I heard my father say that he and his business partners got some Jewish wine that he bought from a rabbi who didn’t need it all, and I’m sure he could sell you a bottle.”

Abe smiled. “Thank you, David. But as I told my friend, I’d rather not get involved in something illegal. You understand,” he added, “I do not mean to insult your father.”

“That’s okay,” David said. He turned and whispered to Malka, “You go ahead with your daddy. I’ll go find mine; you come get me if you need me for anything. He’s usually at the candy store on the corner of Dumont and Saratoga.”

“Okay,” Malka whispered back. “And if we do get wine, I’ll come get you, and you can come to our Sabbath dinner.”

Abe stared at the two children for a moment, then pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, tossed it away, and began walking. Malka waved at David and followed her father out of the park.

The synagogue was located in a small storefront; the large glass windows had been papered over for privacy. CONGREGATION ANSHE EMET was painted in careful Hebrew lettering on the front door. Evening services were obviously over; two elderly men were hobbling out of the store, arguing loudly in Yiddish. Abe waited until they had passed, took a deep breath, and walked in, followed by Malka.

The whitewashed room was taken up by several rows of folding chairs, some wooden bookcases at the back, and a large cabinet covered by a beautifully embroidered cloth. A powerfully built man with a long, white-streaked black beard was collecting books from some of the chairs.

While Malka went to the front to admire the embroidery, Abe walked over to the man. “Rabbi,” he said tentatively.

The rabbi turned and straightened. He stared at Abe doubtfully. “Do I know you?”

“I was here for Jacob Bernstein’s son Maxie’s bar mitzvah two months ago,” said Abe. “You probably don’t remember me.”

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 it. 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.