“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 Malka 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 ge
t 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.”
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 them. 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.
“You stay out here,” her father finally said. “This is not a place for little girls.” He took a breath and pushed the door open. A tiny bell tinkled as he stepped through; Malka, too curious to obey, quietly went in after him and stood by the door, trying to make herself as small as possible.
The store looked as unfriendly inside as it did out. A long counter, which had obviously once been used to serve sodas and ice cream, ran along the right wall of the store; it was empty and streaked with dust, and the shelves behind it were bare except for a few glasses. At the back of the store, there was a display case in which a few cans and dry-looking cakes sat.
The rest of the small space was taken up by several round tables. Only one was occupied, and it was partially obscured by a haze of cigarette smoke. Malka squinted: Three men sat there, playing cards. One was short and fat, with the darkest skin Malka had ever seen; he scowled at the cards while a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. A second, much younger and slimmer, was carefully dressed in a brown suit with a red tie; he had a thin mustache, and his hair was slicked back so that it looked, Malka thought, like it was always wet.
The third man, she decided, must be David’s father. He had David’s long, thin face and slight build, but the humor that was always dancing in David’s wide eyes had long ago disappeared from his. A long, pale scar ran from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, intensifying his look of a man who wasn’t to be trifled with. As she watched, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flask. He took a pull and replaced it without taking his eyes off his cards.
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