The History of Soul 2065 Read online

  Above them, the enthusiastic chorus started again. As a soprano wailed a high lament, she shivered in delight. “I wish I could sing like that.”

  “It’s called ‘Ride Up in the Chariot,’” said David. “When I was little, my mama used to sing it when she washed the white folks’ laundry. She told me my great-grandma sang it when she stole away from slavery.”

  “It’s nice,” Malka said. She had short, dark brown hair that just reached her shoulders and straight bangs that touched her eyebrows. She had pulled her rather dirty knees up and was resting her chin on them, her arms wrapped around her legs. “I’ve heard that one before, but I didn’t know what it was called. They practice every Thursday, and I come here to listen.”

  “Why don’t you go in?” asked David. He was just at that stage of adolescence where the body seemed to be growing too fast; his long legs stretched out in front of him while he leaned back on his elbows. He had a thin, cheerful face set off by bright, intelligent eyes and hair cropped so close to his skull that it looked almost painted on. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind, and you could hear better.”

  Malka grinned and pointed to the sign just above the front-door bell that read Cornerstone Baptist Church. “My papa would mind,” she said. “He’d mind plenty. He’d think I was going to get converted or something.”

  “No wonder I never seen you before,” said the boy. “I usually just come on Sundays. Other days, I …” He paused. “Well, I usually just come on Sundays.”

  The music continued against a background of voices from the people around them. A couple of floors above, a baby cried, and two men argued in sharp, dangerous tones; down on the ground, a gang of boys ran past, laughing, ignoring the two kids sitting outside the brownstone. A man sat on a cart laden with what looked like a family’s possessions. Obviously in no hurry, he let the horse take its time as it proceeded down the cobblestone street.

  The song ended, and a sudden clatter of chairs and conversation indicated that the rehearsal was over. The two kids stood and moved to a nearby streetlamp so they wouldn’t get in the way of the congregation leaving the brownstone in twos and threes.

  Malka looked at David. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Did you say you were dead?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Well, at least, that’s what my daddy told me.”

  She frowned. “You ain’t,” she said and then, when he didn’t say anything, “Really?”

  He nodded affably. She reached out and poked him in the arm. “You ain’t,” she repeated. “If you were a ghost or something, I couldn’t touch you.”

  He shrugged and stared down at the street. Unwilling to lose her new friend, Malka quickly added, “It don’t matter. If you wanna be dead, that’s okay with me.”

  “I don’t want to be dead,” said David. “I don’t even know if I really am. It’s just what Daddy told me.”

  “Okay,” Malka said.

  She swung slowly around the pole, holding on with one hand, while David stood patiently, his hands in the pockets of his worn pants.

  Something caught his attention and he grinned. “Bet I know what he’s got under his coat,” he said, and pointed at a tall man hurrying down the street, his jacket carefully covering a package.

  “It’s a bottle!” said Malka scornfully. “That’s obvious.”

  “It’s moonshine,” said David, laughing.

  “How do you know?” asked Malka, peering at the man.

  “My daddy sells the stuff,” said David. “Out of a candy store over on Dumont Street.”

  Malka was impressed. “Is he a gangster? I saw a movie about a gangster once.”

  David grinned again. “Naw,” he said. “Just a low-rent bootlegger. If my mama ever heard about it, she’d come back here and make him stop in a hurry, you bet.”

  “My mama’s dead,” Malka said. “Where is yours?”

  David shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “She left one day and never came back.” He paused, then asked curiously, “You all don’t go to church, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, what do you do?”

  Malka smiled and tossed her hair back. “I’ll show you,” she said. “Would you like to come to a Sabbath dinner?”

  * * *

  Malka and her father lived in the top floor of a modern five-story apartment building about six blocks from the brownstone church. Somewhere between there and home, David had gone his own way, Malka didn’t quite remember when. It didn’t matter much, she decided. She had a plan, and she could tell David about it later.

  She stood in the main room that acted as parlor, dining room, and kitchen. It was sparsely but comfortably furnished: besides a small wooden table that sat by the open window, there was a coal oven, a sink with cold running water, a cupboard over against one wall, and an overloaded bookcase against another. A faded flower-print rug covered the floor; it had obviously seen several tenants come and go.

  Malka’s father sat at the table reading a newspaper by the slowly waning light, his elbow on the windowsill, his head leaning on his hand. A small plate with the remains of his supper sat nearby. He hadn’t shaved for a while; a short, dark beard covered his face.

  “Papa,” said Malka.

  Her father winced as though something hurt him, but he didn’t take his eyes from the newspaper. “Yes, Malka?” he asked.

  “Papa, today is Thursday, isn’t it?”

  He raised his head and looked at her. Perhaps it was the beard, or because he worked so hard at the furrier’s where he spent his days curing animal pelts, but his face seemed more worn and sad than ever.

  “Yes, daughter,” he said quietly. “Today is Thursday.”

  She sat opposite him and folded her hands neatly in front of her. “Which means that tomorrow is Friday. And tomorrow night is the Sabbath.”

  He smiled. “Now, Malka, when was the last time you saw your papa in a synagogue, rocking and mumbling useless prayers with the old men? This isn’t how I brought you up. You know I won’t participate in any—”

  “—bourgeois religious ceremonies,” she finished with him. “Yes, I know. But I was thinking, Papa, that I would like to have a real Sabbath. The kind that you used to have with Mama. Just once. As …” Her face brightened. “As an educational experience.”

  Her father sighed and put down his paper. “An educational experience, hah?” he asked. “I see. How about this: If you want, on Saturday, we can go to Prospect Park. We’ll sit by the lake and feed the swans. Would you like that?”

  “That would be nice,” said Malka. “But it’s not the same thing, is it?”

  He shrugged. “No, Malka. You’re right. It isn’t.”

  Across the alley, a clothesline squeaked as somebody pulled on it, an infant cried, and somebody cursed in a loud combination of Russian and Yiddish.

  “And what brought on this sudden religious fervor?” her father asked. “You’re not going to start demanding I grow my beard to my knees and read nothing but holy books, are you?”

  “Oh, Papa,” Malka said, exasperated. “Nothing like that. I made friends with this boy today, named David. He’s older than I am—over twelve—and his father also doesn’t approve of religion, but his mama used to sing the same songs they sing in the church down the street. We listened to them today, and I thought maybe I could invite him here and show him what we do …” Her voice trailed off as she saw her father’s face.

  “You were at a church?” her father asked, a little tensely. “And you went in and listened?”

  “No, of course not. We sat outside. It’s the church on the first floor of that house on Remsen Avenue. The one where they sing all those wonderful songs.”

  “Ah!” her father said, enlightened, and shook his head. “Well, and I shouldn’t be pigheaded about this. Your mama always said I could be very pigheaded about my political convictions. You are a separate individual, and deserve to make up your own mind.”

  “And it’s really for educating David,” said Mal
ka eagerly.

  Her father smiled. “Would that make you happy, Malka?” he asked. “To have a Sabbath dinner for you and your friend? Just this once?”

  “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.”

  “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 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.”