Half the Blood of Brooklyn

by Charlie Huston

  The Rebbe places a hand on Lydia’s throat, feeling the contractions as she swallows.

  —Not too much, Rachel. Just what she needs.

  Rachel has her eyes closed.

  —Whatever I can give is yours, Rebbe.

  He looks at me, and then at his son and the boys and Stretch and Vendetta and Harm.

  —See, this is instructive, what she says. The story I mentioned, from Judges nineteen and twenty and twenty-one: a man travels with his concubine. Coming to Gibeah in the land of the Benjaminites they could find no lodging. No one would take them in, you see? All doors were closed. Windows sealed. No welcome as night came. None would even speak to them. None but one old man. He took them in, yes? And that night, men of Gibeah, they came to the old man’s house and demanded the stranger. The old man, fearing for the stranger’s life pleaded for them to leave. They refused. And the old man he offered them his daughter to do with as they pleased if they would leave the traveler in peace. But the men would not harken to this. Then the traveler offered to the men of Gibeah his concubine, and the men of Gibeah knew her and abused her all night until the morning. Our tribe, the Tribe of Benjamin did this.

  He looks in Rachel’s eyes.

  —And she died of it, the concubine. But she did not complain. Sacrificing herself. And because of this sacrifice, the traveler took the body of his concubine, a woman who, it must be noted, had been infamously unfaithful to him, and he divided her, together with her bones, into twelve pieces, and sent her into all the coasts of Israel.

  He looks away from the girl’s eyes.

  —And the message was not lost on the other tribes.

  He looks down, takes a firm grip on Lydia’s jaw and on Rachel’s wrist and pries them apart, Lydia’s throat continuing to work, her tongue swiping blood from her own lips.

  —Four hundred thousand men they sent to Gibeah. A city whose men numbered seven hundred. Seven hundred chosen men left-handed; every one could sling stones at hair breadth, and not miss. And beside these seven hundred stood twenty-six thousand other men of the Tribe of Benjamin.

  He’s gone back into his bag for more gauze, and begins to bandage Rachel’s wrist.

  —So, twenty-six thousand, seven hundred against four hundred thousand, yes? Not good odds. Roughly, it’s what, sixteen to one, yes? Not good odds.

  He ties off the ends of the bandage.

  —In the first battle, just the first, the men of Benjamin killed twenty-two thousand of their enemies.

  He pulls the sleeve of Rachel’s blouse back into place.

  —Somewhat better odds, now, but still not good. Not a betting man’s odd, I think. Not at all. And, on the second battle, after the men of Israel had prayed to God for guidance and drew the sword, the men of Benjamin destroyed down to the ground of the children of Israel again eighteen thousand.

  He rises.

  —And the children of Israel, not surprisingly, were troubled. But they went up to the house of the Lord and they fasted and they burnt offerings and they prayed for what they should do and God said, Go up into battle; for tomorrow I will deliver them into thine hands.

  He steps into the aisle.

  —And God kept his promise, yes? Of course he did. And the children of Israel destroyed twenty and five thousand of the Benjaminites that day and a hundred men more.

  He walks toward the arc. —All these drew the sword.

  He reaches the arc, opens it, touches the scrolls of the Torah.

  —There was more killing, of course. No surprise again, yes? The children of Israel chased the Benjaminites to the walls of Gibeah and trod them down. And they entered the city and put it to the sword and burned it.

  He turns, his hand still on the Torah.

  —In the end, six hundred men fled to the rock of Rimmon in the wilderness. And that was all that remained of the tribe. And it would have died, the Tribe of Benjamin. Except that the children of Israel knew this would have been a great sin. An unpardonable sin, yes? There is such a thing. So, they were driven out, they had no kingdom, but four hundred virgins were taken from the slaughtered tribe of Jabesh-Gilead and given to the Benjaminites as wives. And more were taken dancing in the fields from the daughters of Shiloh. To keep their tribe alive, yes? You see it, yes, the women? The women. How precious. Some few were descended from Benjamin, children of mothers who had married into other tribes. And so the Benjaminites survived.

  He looks at me.

  —But none of the men of Gibeah.

  He comes toward me.

  —The men who at night encircled the old man’s home and demanded the stranger. The men who knew and abused all night the two innocent girls and went away with the dawn, yes? The seven hundred chosen men left-handed; and everyone could sling stones at an hairbreadth, and not miss. The seven hundred men of Gibeah who led the Benjaminites against the four hundred thousand children of all the rest of Israel and killed in two battles forty thousand men.

  He spreads arms to take in his son and the other boys.

  —But the men of Gibeah are here. Their blood is here in our veins. You see that, yes? The blood of Gibeah is in you. Not the blood of Benjamin, but, yes, Gibeah is even in you.

  He waves Rachel over and she comes to him.

  —A child of Benjamin, the blood of Gibeah is owed to her, for her fathers came to our assistance when we needed them. But she for-goes having Gibeah in her. To sacrifice her blood to Gibeah. To keep our tribe alive. The lost Tribe of Gibeah.

  He comes to my pew and looks down at me.

  —The descendents of the seven hundred.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder.

  —So if you are from the Coalition, yes? If you are truly one of the spies we have seen at the edges of our land, one of the skulkers hiding in Queens? Yes, if you are one of them?

  He takes the freshly healed skin on my mangled ear between his fingers and rips it off.

  —You would do best to remember we were defeated only once.

  He drops the bit of skin in my lap and wipes his fingers on my shirt.

  —And only then when God intervened.

  —Holy hell, will you can it with all that superstition?

  We all look at Lydia, sitting up on her pew, a hand massaging her throat.

  —It’s like I’m with my dad talking all that crap at Seder all over again.

  —The little person is lying. We’re from the Society.

  —Little person? Little person? Bitch, I get my hands free and drop trow, you’ll see how little I am. Keep that politically correct shit, I’m a midget.

  He leans forward.

  —And you’re the one who’s lying. Telling you, Moishe, these are Coalition whaddayacallims? Fascists!

  Lydia looks up from inspecting the puncture wounds in her stomach.—Fascists? Are you? Alright, this is too much. This is just. Me? A fascist?

  She looks at the Rebbe.

  —We’re from the Society. I am a serving member on the Society’s directorate council.

  She points at me.

  —Joe is the head of Society security. We’re pledged members to a Clan devoted to unity and equality among all rational living things and. Fascists? We’re, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this, but we’re freedom fighters. We’re fighting for your freedom and you. We’re trying to create an atmosphere in which this woman.

  She points at Rachel.

  —Won’t have to be indentured and used like a hamster feeder. Which is not to say I don’t appreciate what you did giving me your blood, but believe me, you shouldn’t let yourself be used like that by these men. And.

  Her jaw drops.

  —Fascists? Forgive me for harping on this, but I’m just dumb-founded that you could even try to. Do you know?

  She looks at the Rebbe.

  —Do you know we’re here at his request? Did you know that? He and his Clan made contact with us and requested a meeting because they wanted safe passage into Manhattan. An alliance. And now he’s. I just. I’m, OK, I’m
not making much sense here so I better be quiet for a moment and gather my thoughts because I am just at a loss for words as to how I should respond to that kind of ignorance and blatant disregard for the facts and. Well, I just have nothing to say.

  She pulls up her sleeve and points at the upside-down pink triangle on her shoulder.

  —Do you even know what this means?

  Stretch nods.

  —Means you’re another bitch doesn’t know how to keep her mouth shut.

  She gets to her feet and lurches in Stretch’s direction.

  —Motherfucker, I’m going to fucking kill you, you fucking half-wit half-pint half-man, say one more word like that and I’m going to fucking kill you and kill you!

  Moishe puts a hand on her arm.

  She looks at it.

  —Get it off me.

  He removes his hand.

  —Of course, this is not meant in disrespect, yes? Is it? No. Just that you are injured. Better to sit, yes? Sit. Please.

  She sits, looks at me.

  —You planning to join in, Joe?

  —Hey, you’re the diplomat.

  Stretch opens his mouth and the Rebbe puts a finger to his lips.

  —No. No, Abe, no more. You’ve made your case, yes? They are from the Coalition, you say. You know why they are here, you say. You will tell me what they are here for if I turn Hannah and Sarah over to you. This is what you have to say. I do not need to hear it again. These two, they say what? They say you are a liar. They say they are from the Society. Like that should mean something to me they say it. What does it mean? If they are telling me the truth this should make me feel better? Safer? To know more outsiders are involving themselves in our concerns should make me at ease? No. This is what I know.

  He closes his eyes and puts fingers to his temples.

  —The Coalition, they have been here.

  He opens his eyes and looks at Lydia.

  —You did not know this? Yes? No? They have been here. Offering alliances. Assurances. Promising Brooklyn to us. As if it were theirs to give. If you are one of theirs you may know this. Or not. What can I tell them? Brooklyn is already ours. This is our land. The land of the Benjaminites. The city of New Gibeah. This is ours. And they say yes, OK, yes. They leave. Very civilized. But they have been seen. Just north. In Queens. The Coalition. Many of them in Queens. What does this mean?

  He folds his arms.

  —If you are Coalition, I would like to know this. And if you are not? And if you are? Does it matter?

  Axler puts a hand over the knife sheathed inside his vest.

  —We should kill them, Papa.

  —Did I ask you, Axler? Did I ask you anything but to be quiet?

  —Wherever they’re from, they’re here to make trouble. We have to make a lesson of them. The people, Papa, the rest of the tribe, we told them we would keep them safe. This is how we do it.

  He takes the knife out and points it at Vendetta and Harm.

  —We keep the women of the tribe for increase.

  He points it at Stretch.

  —We kill the enemies of the tribe for safety.

  He points it at me and Lydia.

  —And we kill invaders to protect the borders of the tribe’s land.

  He points the knife at himself.

  —You may not like the way I did this tonight, Papa, but it had to be done. The rest of the tribe will not want to know it was done this way, but it had to be done. They can sleep safely in Gravesend only if we make these choices. I sinned. I broke the Sabbath. But someone has to.

  Rebbe Moishe pulls down the corners of his mouth, raises his eyebrows, unfolds his arms and hoists his shoulders.

  —Sometimes, not always, but sometimes my son can talk sense.

  I clear my throat.

  He drops his shoulders.

  —Yes?

  —Would it be possible for me to ask a question?

  —These manners, where have they come from? Yes, of course, a question, ask it.

  I look at Axler.

  —I was wondering if that’s the knife you used to kill Selig?

  No one says anything. So I carry the conversation for the moment.

  —In the cemetery? It was just a little while ago? You stuck it through his throat and cut his brain stem with it. Was that the one you’re waving around there?

  He comes in my direction.

  —Axler!

  He stops and looks at his father.

  —A filthy lie! Do you need any more proof, Papa?

  I lean into the aisle.

  —Hey, I’m not asking anyone to take my word for this, Rebbe. Try grilling one of his lameass posse here. Based on the spine they showed when he was waxing their friend, I’m guessing they’ll spill the beans in about a second.

  I look at the kid who scratched my head.

  —What about it, buddy, you and Selig close? Got any regrets about not stepping up when junior lost his cool and killed the promising young rabbinical student?

  The head scratcher opens his mouth, stands, sits, closes his mouth, looks at the Rebbe, looks away.

  —He’s lying, Rebbe.

  I shrug.

  —Well, that’s it, looks like I’m screwed. Testimony like that, how can I not be lying?

  Axler’s fingers are white on the handle of the knife when he waves it at me.

  —He’s lying. He killed Chaim.

  He waves it at Lydia.

  —And she killed Selig. She killed Selig.

  Lydia straightens.

  —Hold on, hold on. I admit I fired indiscriminately and can’t account for every round, but I didn’t stab anyone. I’m certainly not prepared to accept the blame for a death I can’t say for certain I had any involvement in.

  Stretch goes red faced.

  —Will someone please shut that cunt’s mouth before I go crazy?

  Lydia comes off the bench.

  She careens across the aisle and throws her shoulder into Stretch and knocks him to the floor and grabs him by his bound ankles and lifts him and swings him high in an arc over her head and brings him down and his skull shatters three of the large white tiles that cover the floor, sending a spiderweb of cracks across them and gouts of blood and shards of bone through the air.

  She falls to her knees and drops his ankles and watches him jerk twice and stiffen and we all smell his bowels go and the blood stops pumping and the one eye that still has a socket to hold it in rolls around and stops and glasses over.

  Lydia looks at the dead midget, looks up at us all.

  —I told him I’d kill him if he talked like that again.

  Harm goes berserk.

  Vendetta goes berserk too, but all she does is grab her dad and howl and shake. Harm wants to make Lydia dead. And she makes a living doing the nail act with her sister. And the rest of the crowd is trying to get her down without killing her.

  Fucking fiasco.

  I do the smart thing and roll off my pew and squirm under it and watch. Lydia just sits on the floor and stares at Vendetta with her dead father in her arms.

  Harm gets close, but Axler’s boys keep wrestling her down. They have to break a few bones to do it, Rebbe Moishe all the time telling them to be gentle.

  When they try to get Stretch from Vendetta’s embrace, she bites someone’s thumb off. They get smart and let her hold the dead guy and just lift them both from the floor and carry them out to wherever they took Harm and Rachel. Axler’s place, I guess.

  And in the middle of all this, Axler comes for me.

  Knife out, chaos behind him, he reaches under the pew and pulls me out and I twist my wrists and the straps hold and I kick my legs and the straps hold and he pulls my hair and stretches my throat and when his father hauls him off me and throws him to the other side of the temple he takes hair and scalp with him.

  And soon after that, it’s pretty quiet. The girls are gone with the escort of boys, which leaves me bound on the floor, and the Rebbe sighing deep, and his son dragging himself t
o his feet and looking for his knife, and Lydia, still staring at the door where they took the dead father and his crazed daughters.

  Lydia looks at Moishe.

  —I did warn him.

  He crouches next to her.

  —Yes, you did. No one said otherwise.

  —I’ve never done anything like that before.

  —Of course not, why would you have? He tasked you. You are wounded and exhausted and in danger and he tasked you.

  —I mean, I’ve, I’ve, I’ve killed before. But in self defense. I. I’ve never. In anger. I’ve never done that before.

  —You were raised well, then. You said your father kept Seder? You were raised in a proper house? He was Jewish? Yes?

  She looks at the cracked tiles.

  —What? Yes. Jewish. All that nonsense. All of us. Yeah, yeah, but California Jewish is different from New York Jewish.

  —Shht. Nonsense. There is only Jewish. Look at us, yes? I came from Poland. Do you believe this? It is true. Deep in the dark holds of ships. Smuggled out. From Poland. Over the sea. Are we different from New York Jews? Perverse as we are, are we not Jewish? Yes, we are. Your father raised you Jewish, you are Jewish. And your mother?

  —Yeah, like I said, all Jewish. Bat mitzvah, the whole thing. Till I was old enough to think for myself.

  —Well, they must have raised you well and loving. You’ve been blessed. In this our life, only to have killed in self defense. Never until now in anger. Never from greed or hunger. That I could say the same.

  He stands, he stands and takes a step and puts himself in the path of his son, who has recovered his knife and has crossed the temple and is coming for me.

  —Axler.

  —Move, Papa.

  —Boy.

  —Move.

  Axler sweeps his arm at his father to knock him aside.

  And the Rebbe grabs his son’s wrist and twists it and cranks it down and behind his back and pushes it up and kicks him once behind each knee and Axler goes down and throws his free hand out to catch himself and the knife flies from his fingers and his father forces the arm high and his son bends until his forehead touches the ground, his face rubbed in the pooled blood of his uncle.

  —Boy, you have done enough. Enough. And is there no length you will not go to cover your sins? Laying hands on your father? Your Rebbe? Piling bodies on bodies to hide the ones beneath? Invoke the safety of the tribe to excuse your shame? Shht.