The History of Soul 2065 Read online

  Copyright Information

  The History of Soul 2065

  Copyright © 2019 by Barbara Krasnoff

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.

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  Cover art and design and interior illustrations © 2019 by Paula Arwen Owen, arwen.myportfolio.com.

  All rights reserved.

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  FIRST EDITION

  June 11, 2019

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  Published by Mythic Delirium Books

  mythicdelirium.com

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  “Can I Tell You: Introduction” by Jane Yolen. Copyright © 2019 by Jane Yolen.

  Most of these stories have appeared in other publications (specified below), although they were slightly revised so that they could take their proper place in the histories of Chana’s and Sophia’s families. The five stories that are original to this volume are noted.

  “The Clearing in the Autumn” is original to this book. Copyright © 2019 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “Sabbath Wine” was previously published in Clockwork Phoenix 5. Allen, Mike, ed. Mythic Delirium Books, 2016. Copyright © 2016 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “Lost Connections” was previously published in Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet No. 10. Grant, Gavin J., ed. Small Beer Press, June 2002. Copyright © 2002 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “Hearts and Minds” was previously published in Weird Tales #336. Lapine, Warren and Schweitzer, Darrell, eds. December 2004. Copyright © 2004 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “Cancer God” was previously published in Space and Time #8. Silverman, Hildy, Ed. Fall 2009. Copyright © 2009 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “In the Loop” was previously published in Descant. Mulhallen, Karen, ed. Toronto: Descant Arts & Letters, 2003. Copyright © 2003 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “The Ladder-Back Chair” was previously published in Mythic Delirium #3.4, Allen, Mike, ed. April-June 2017. Copyright © 2017 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “The Sad Old Lady” was previously published in Voluted Dreams-Issue One, Fiction. Nadeau, Christopher, ed. July 2013. Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “The Red Dybbuk” was previously published in Subversion: Science Fiction & Fantasy Tales of Challenging the Norm. Lieb, Bart R., ed. Somerville, MA: Crossed Genres Pub., 2011. Copyright © 2011 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “Waiting for Jakie” was previously published in Apex Magazine. Sizemore, Jason and Ainsworth, Gill, eds. April 2009. Copyright © 2009 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “The Gingerbread House” was previously published in Electric Velocipede #17/18. Klima, John and Scithers, George H. eds. July 2009. Copyright © 2009 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “Time and the Parakeet” is original to this book. Copyright © 2019 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “Under the Bay Court Tree” was previously published in Space and Time #121. Silverman, Hildy, ed. Summer 2015. Copyright © 2015 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “An Awfully Big Adventure” is original to this book. Copyright © 2019 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “Rosemary, That’s For Remembrance” was previously published in Clockwork Phoenix 2. Allen, Mike, ed. Winnetka, CA: Norilana Books, 2009. Copyright © 2009 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “Stoop Ladies” was previously published in Such a Pretty Face. Martindale, Lee, ed. Atlanta: Meisha Merlin Pub, 2000. Copyright © 2000 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “Escape Route” is original to this book. Copyright © 2019 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “Sophia’s Legacy” was previously published in Mythic Delirium #2.1. Allen, Mike, ed. Sept. 2015. Copyright © 2015 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “The Clearing in the Spring” is original to this book. Copyright © 2019 by Barbara Krasnoff.

  “The History of Soul 2065” was previously published in Clockwork Phoenix 4. Allen, Mike, ed. Mythic Delirium Books, 2013. Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Krasnoff.

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  Our gratitude goes out to the following who because of their generosity are from now on designated as supporters of Mythic Delirium Books: Saira Ali, Cora Anderson, Anonymous, Patricia M. Cryan, Steve Dempsey, Oz Drummond, Patrick Dugan, Matthew Farrer, C. R. Fowler, Mary J. Lewis, Paul T. Muse, Jr., Shyam Nunley, Finny Pendragon, Kenneth Schneyer, and Delia Sherman.

  Dedicated with love and thanks to my immediate family: my mother Dorothy, my father Bernard, my brother Neal, and my partner and forever companion Jim Freund.

  Table of Contents

  Can I Tell You

  Introduction by Jane Yolen

  Chana’s Family Tree

  Sophia’s Family Tree

  Beginnings

  The Clearing in the Autumn

  A story of Chana Rivka Krasulka and Sophia Stein

  The Book of Chana’s Family

  Sabbath Wine

  A story of Abe Hirsch, Chana’s husband-to-be

  Lost Connections

  A story of Marilyn Feldman, Chana’s granddaughter

  Hearts and Minds

  Abe’s story continues

  Cancer God

  A story of Jakie Feldman, Chana’s son-in-law

  In the Loop

  A story of Morris Feldman, Chana’s grandson

  The Ladder-Back Chair

  A story of Joan Feldman, Chana’s granddaughter-in-law

  The Sad Old Lady

  A story of Sheila Hirsch, Chana’s daughter-in-law

  The Red Dybbuk

  Marilyn’s story continues

  The Book of Sophia’s Family

  Waiting for Jakie

  A story of Gretl Held Weissbaum, Sophia’s daughter-in-law

  In the Gingerbread House

  A story of Isabeau Weissbaum Stein, Sophia’s daughter

  Time and the Parakeet

  A story of Eileen Stein Bowman, Sophia’s granddaughter

  Under the Bay Court Tree

  A story of Carlos Acosta, Sophia’s grandson-in-law

  An Awfully Big Adventure

  A story of Benjamin Weissbaum, Sophia’s grandson

  Rosemary, That’s For Remembrance

  A story of Lydia Jacobson, Isabeau’s housemate

  Stoop Ladies

  A story of Julie Jacobson, Lydia’s daughter

  Escape Route

  Julie’s story continues

  Sophia’s Legacy

  A story of Rachel Bowman, Sophia’s great-granddaughter

  Completing the Circle

  The Clearing in the Spring

  A story of Chana and Sophia’s great-granddaughters

  The History of Soul 2065

  Annie and Rachel’s story continues

  Can I Tell You

  Introduction by Jane Yolen

  Can I tell you right up front how much I love this book? Am I allowed to do that? I don’t know, really know, the author, though I have met her once or twice in passing at cons. I’ve read a few of the stories in magazines. We’re not related. But my goodness, I love this book.

  First, I love it for personal reasons. It feels like the Yolen family story in places. I can hear my Uncle Lou, the oldest of the family of eight children (my father being the second youngest) saying as he once did at a family seder, while reading out of the Haggadah, “And how do I know all dis? I vas dere.” Dere
being the Ukraine, not the Levant.

  The people in Krasnoff’s stories are my people. The villains are the same who would have destroyed us. Think Cossacks, Hitler, Chernobyl. The Yolens came over in three groups, all settled in America by 1914. So Krasnoff’s characters are my people.

  Of course, you needn’t be Jewish to love this book. (But it couldn’t hurt.)

  I also love the book for the storytelling, the depth of characters, and how I wept wet, fat, sloppy tears at some of the story moments, or sighed over the characters’ situations. Even laughed a few times.

  Barbara Krasnoff’s mosaic novel—not a term I invented but one that was handed to me—is a new sort of creature. Not quite a novel, not necessarily just linked stories. But definitely a book about two intertwined families told in quick, quirky bursts. Yes, these are short stories, yet part of a wonderful whole novel somehow. The publisher says that more succinctly: “A mosaic novel about two Jewish immigrant families, set mostly in Brooklyn, with numerous elements that could be considered magical realism and soft sf.”

  If you, like me, love quirky and original fantasy stories, I advise you to dive right in. If you, like me, admire tough writing that’s not afraid of the grit, dive right in. If you, like me, want to hang out a while with characters rich in their own traditions, dive right in. This is story-telling at the top of the heap. But make sure you have a bunch of tissues handy. And if you don’t trust someone writing an introduction that is all about sighing and sobbing, and without any meat on its bones, don’t dive in yet, read on. But remember, I’m warning you, there will be some sloppy, snotty crying in your future.

  So what indeed do you have at hand in this book? A bit of time travel, ghost stories, old age homes, new babies, Death in her various guises, a coven of witches, a bit of Yiddish, a “little song, a little dance, a little seltzer in your pants.” Oh, and a lot of Jews. I especially like the stogy-smoking, atheistic, Marxist rabble rousers. There were lot of them around when I was growing up in New York. My father even said he ran guns for the Irgun. Since he never shot a gun in his life and was much more left wing than center, I doubt that story. But the Yolens were all storytellers. Best not to believe everything they said. My mother’s people, the Berlins, were the intellectuals. Not sure I trust them completely either when they tell tales.

  And so it is with this book. A lot of truth, a lot of magic, a lot of hand-waving, a lot of shifts in the zeitgeist. But in the end the subtler truths emerge.

  (Note: See Emily Dickinson: “Tell all the truth but tell it slant…” She was a mensch before the word was invented.)

  All but five of the stories here were published first in magazines/journals ranging from Weird Tales and Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet to Mythic Delirium, as well as in anthologies, though most in slightly different versions. Some had to be rewritten a bit to become part of the growing mosaic.

  You ask: which stories in The History of Soul 2065 are my favorites? “Sabbath Wine” (the Nebula finalist) is one. It builds slowly and inevitably towards its tear-burst of a last line. “The Ladder-Back Chair,” another weeper, with its nod to September 11. But it doesn’t go where you expect it will, and it’s the surprise that sandbags you. However, Krasnoff has played fair all along the way with both these stories. And my third choice is the title story that concludes the book, though it is a mosaic within a mosaic, being made up of different stories. It is both a revelation within the story/stories themselves, but also reveals how tightly everything has been woven together.

  Everything really does end on the final pages. And begins. Well, it’s a spiritual/fantasy conclusion. And yes, you will cry again.

  These stories mess with time and space in a multitude of ways, but the entire book is really about ghosting. We all have ghosts in our lives, seen or unseen, heard or unheard. Some ghosts are driven by photographs or family tittle-tattle or old letters or the remnants of distant wars. But here in Krasnoffs’s novel, those ghosts from the past, present, future are clever, vivid, and real. Individual stories may rise one above another depending upon the readers’ responses, but the whole—that mosaic—is an amazing sum of its parts. Perhaps not in clay, as actual mosaics, but certainly in the silver of history, the gold of story.

  The Clearing in the Autumn

  A story of Chana Rivka Krasulka and Sophia Stein

  1914

  Chana had seen a real forest once, when she was six years old. Her parents had taken her to the wedding of a relative in another town, one not all that far from Kiev. Tremendously excited, she had spent nearly the entire journey kneeling on the seat with her nose pressed against the train window as stations and farms and towns sped by. And then, at one point, they went through an endless tangle of trees—dark and thick and frightening.

  It was a forest, her father told her, and forests were not only full of trees and birds and mushrooms and other delightful things, but also contained wolves and bandits. “What kind of bandits?” Chana asked, intrigued at the thought. “Like the little robber girl in The Snow Queen?”

  At which point her mother made her sit back in her seat, and informed her that the trees also hid the spirits of dead children, who would lure little girls to come and play with them, and then steal them away from the world of the living.

  Even at six years of age, Chana knew that her mother was just trying to frighten her. The rabbi’s wife, who taught the young children their letters and numbers, had explained that the spirits of the dead, when they did walk the earth, were forced to stay by their graves unless a vulnerable body presented itself. That was why children weren’t allowed to attend funerals—they were too new to this world to defend themselves against possible attack by a dybbuk or other wandering soul. So the dead children couldn’t possibly be in the forest, unless they had been accidentally buried there.

  In addition, the idea of having ghost-children to play with was an intriguing one. Chana knew her mother well enough not to say so, but somewhere inside herself, she hid the hope that one day she would meet a real ghost child.

  Unfortunately, there weren’t many opportunities. Lviv, where Chana lived, was large and modern, and she somehow suspected that ghosts and spirits preferred forests and glens rather than noisy streets. Even the local park, where her parents and aunts and uncles took her on Sundays when it was fine, was so carefully cultivated that Chana suspected anything supernatural would avoid it like the plague.

  Until one sunny afternoon. They had eaten a lovely picnic lunch in the park, and now the grown-ups were arguing about politics, and Chana’s cousins, most of whom were older, were avidly examining the fashion illustrations in a magazine. Bored to distraction, Chana asked her mother if she could go for a walk.

  “Don’t go far,” her mother warned her absent-mindedly, absorbed in her conversation. Chana called out, “I promise!” and left quickly, before her mother had any chance to change her mind.

  She walked down a small gravel path, kicking at the occasional stone, and making up stories in her head about how she would become rich and famous when she was older. And then looked up, and discovered that she was at the beginning of a small pathway that led into a grove of large, well-grown trees. A forest!

  Of course, it wasn’t a real forest, not a full-sized, hike-for-days-and-be-lost forest. But maybe, once inside, she could pretend it was a real forest. At the very least, she’d be able to leave the manicured lawns and metal benches behind.

  The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees, muting the sounds of the town behind her. The path was narrow, even for a young girl, and sometimes the trees pulled at her dress or caught at her hair, tugging strands away from her tight braid. Chana walked slowly, enjoying the sense of secrecy and possible danger, occasionally stopping to admire a wild flower, or to pick up a small stone so she could throw it into the trees and watch the startled birds fly off.

  And then there was sunlight dappling a soft grass carpet, and space on either side. Chana looked around; she had reached a small cle
aring that had a canopy of branches overhead. Before her, resting on the grass and dandelions, there were three logs—the remains of a tree that had fallen ages and ages ago.

  Chana grinned and spun around, taking it all in. At last she had her own secret place!

  After she had examined the area thoroughly, Chana sat on the grass next to one of the logs, which had a large hole in it that was just the right size for a tiny apartment. The girl arranged stones and branches into furniture and stick dolls, occasionally looking out of the corners of her eyes just in case any ghostly children were lurking nearby. But to her disappointment, none made an appearance.

  “Chana Rivka! So this is where you disappeared to!” It was her father, hot and annoyed. “Your mother has been frantic!” He gave her a swift swat on the behind, grabbed her hand and walked her back to the picnic. As she was led away, Chana gave a quick glance behind to keep the small clearing in her memory. She’d return as soon as she could.

  And she did, every chance she got. As Chana got older, the clearing became more than just a quiet place to play—it was somewhere where she could escape. From the other girls at school, who teased her unmercifully because she was sent out of the room when the priest came to give the catechism lesson. From her mother, who complained that her daughter was ungrateful for all the money they spent making sure she had a good Russian education rather than being sent to the local Jewish day school. And from the world, so she could read her books uninterrupted and dream about the day when she would be old enough to travel and see wondrous things.

  On the day after her 11th birthday, which happened to be a Saturday, Chana tucked one of her birthday presents into her rucksack: The Penknife by Sholem Aleichem, a worn but still legible book that Chaim the Litvak, who sold books and pens from a small booth in the marketplace, had given her. With that, and an early apple that she had found near one of her grandmother’s trees, she was ready for at least an hour to herself.