Part 1 (1/2)
Joshua.
A Brooklyn Tale.
Andrew Kane.
Praise for Andrew Kane's first novel, RABBI, RABBI.
”Andrew Kane writes with keen wit and well crafted insight... a must read, literary and spiritual journey.” Faye Kellerman, Novelist.
”Kane delivers some stunning portraits... this first novel is a warm, richly colored story that will move readers of any faith.” Booklist.
”In true potboiler fas.h.i.+on... walks us through his characters' journeys with insight, sensitivity, and fine attention to detail that are rare.” Hada.s.sah Magazine ”An enjoyably lightweight page-turner... exotic fun.” The Jerusalem Report.
”Kane has a penchant for scandal... he has written a first novel that is likely to be enjoyed by religious enthusiasts, heretics, and most people who are undoubtedly somewhere in between.” Long Island Jewish World ”Beautifully constructed... hard to put down... fast paced story that sustains suspense and holds the interest.” Catskill-Hudson Jewish Star.
”A moving story of the power of love and faith... a richly textured tapestry.” Bayside Tribune ”An unusual and original novel... absorbing tale... filled with impressive learning... wrapped around by a touching romance.” South Sh.o.r.e Record.
”Andrew Kane paints a wonderful picture... a poignant examination... a must-read piece of Jewish-American literature.” Steven J. Bernstein, Former Hebraica Librarian, Yale University ”A worthy edition... provides us with an understanding that profundity and complexity are not the same thing.” Great Neck Record.
”Kane brings in numerous characters who are well drawn... insightful commentary on the contemporary Jewish scene which is well worthy of note.” Dade Jewish Journal.
AUTHOR'S NOTE.
While set in real places, this book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and dialogue are all products of the author's imagination. In instances where known names or events are employed, the related characters, incidents, and dialogue are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental and unintended.
For Debbie.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.
I am grateful, firstly, to my wife, Debbie, for the countless ways in which she makes everything possible; my children, Max and Jessica, who never cease to challenge and inspire me; my good friend, Ira Wolff, for his wise counsel, and for providing me with a boost of confidence to see this through. Others include: Nat Lenchner, of blessed memory, for his editorial touches; Sally Kane, my mother and biggest fan; Nancy Schroeder, my research a.s.sistant from the early days of this project; Downstate Medical Center/Kings County Hospital Center, and The New Hope Guild Center/Tikva, for affording me the opportunity during the 1980's to work with and learn about African American and Hasidic populations in the Crown Heights area and throughout Brooklyn; the many African American and Hasidic patients and families I have treated over the years, for teaching me about their respective cultures and lifestyles; the folks at Abbott Press for their support and guidance. Lastly, I am deeply indebted to Denise Lenchner, the world's greatest book doctor.
Sources that were helpful in my research include Brooklyn, The Way It Was, by Brian Merlis; A Report To The Governor On The Disturbances In Crown Heights (Volume I): An a.s.sessment of the City's Preparedness and Response to Civil Disorder, by Richard H. Girgenti; A Report To The Governor On The Disturbances In Crown Heights (Volume II); A Review of the Investigation into the Death of Yankel Rosenbaum and the Resulting Prosecution, by Richard H. Girgenti; Archives of the New York Times, New York Post, Daily News, New York Magazine, and The New Yorker.
With thee have I pushed into all the forbidden, all the worst and the furthest: and if there be anything of virtue in me, it is that I have had no fear . . .
Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathustra.
PROLOGUE.
A slight breeze drifted through the open window, offering little relief from the sweltering August night. Joshua sat in a chair beside Rachel's bed, his eyes fixed on her, his ears on the words of rage from the street below.
Kill the Jews!.
No Justice, no peace!
The chanting, the clamor of bottles smas.h.i.+ng, windows breaking, cars overturned-it had been going on for two days with no reprieve. Stores had been looted and set afire, pedestrians violently attacked, and still no help from the police. Or anyone.
Rachel was s.h.i.+vering. The months of chemotherapy had left her frail. ”Joshua, would it be all right if we closed the window? I'm so cold.” As always, her words came softly.
”Of course,” he replied, though for him the room was stifling.
On the street, madness reigned. The mob wouldn't stop till it got what it wanted, what it believed it ”rightfully” deserved. Already, one innocent scholar had been bludgeoned to death. And instead of contrition, there was only more violence. But here, four stories above the battleground, Rachel was struggling simply to exist, to survive but another day, even a week.
Reluctantly, Joshua approached the window, afraid to be seen by some ”hero” with a brick in hand. True, Joshua was a black man-a fact some had accused him of forgetting-but in the dark night, high above the street, he realized his figure would appear but a colorless, indistinguishable shadow, as ripe a target as any.
Keeping himself from view, he reached out and closed the window. The screams were m.u.f.fled as stillness descended upon the room. Crouching, he turned back to the chair.
Suddenly, an earsplitting sound-gla.s.s shattering, a brick cras.h.i.+ng through the window. Diving out of its way, Joshua instinctively lunged onto the bed to protect Rachel.
”What's happening,” she cried. ”Why are they doing this?”
He looked at the broken gla.s.s around them, and had no answer. Two long days trapped, a Kristalnacht in the middle of Brooklyn in 1991, and no a.s.sistance from an entire city that had abandoned them.
A moment pa.s.sed. Another crash. More shattering gla.s.s as a large stone flew across the room, smas.h.i.+ng against the far wall. The screaming from the street could be heard once again, as he held her tightly, listening to a succession of windows breaking in yet other rooms and apartments. One after another.
”Don't be afraid, everything will be okay,” he repeated. ”The police will come. I know they'll come.”
Then, a sound Joshua knew only too well: gunshots. Now, despite the heat, he too began to s.h.i.+ver, doubting his own a.s.surances as images raced through his mind. What was he-of all people-doing there, lying beside this daughter of a saintly rabbi, willing to protect her with his life? How did he, once a wanna-be hoodlum, a nickel and dime runner for drug dealers, wind up loving this woman who was slowly slipping away? But for a twist of fate, he knew he could certainly have been among the agitators below.
A twist of fate.
And, perhaps, the grace of G.o.d.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER 1.
He was a street-kid. Union Street, President Street, Carroll Street, Crown Street, and Montgomery Street, to be exact. Nine years old, and fortunate to be one of the first black kids to move to the south side of Eastern Parkway. A dubious distinction, indeed.
His old neighborhood, north of Atlantic Avenue, had suited him just fine. But not his mother; she wanted ”more,” and that meant ”living with white folk,” as she put it. ”You're not going to be another one of those b.u.ms out there, making trouble and ending up with nothing,” she once yelled, after learning he'd been truant from school for several weeks. ”You'll become something if it's the last thing I do!”
He was scared when she spoke that way, which was fairly often. And it wasn't the fury in her voice, nor the fire in her eyes that terrified him, it was the fact that she always meant what she said.
And this time was no exception. For it was soon after that when they moved from the Bedford-Stuyvesant section to the tree-lined streets of Crown Heights, from a d.i.n.ky walk-up above a grocery store on Lewis Avenue to a bona-fide two-bedroom flat in a building on the corner of Rochester Avenue and President Street, directly across from Lincoln Terrace Park.
Crown Heights was a heterogeneous neighborhood in many respects, reflecting a spectrum of social cla.s.ses. Joshua's new home was on the top floor of a four-story, red and brown brick apartment building with the name Rochester Court engraved in the cement arch above the entrance. Beneath the arch, two gla.s.s doors stood, framed and protected by swirling black wrought-iron. A four foot high black iron fence also ran the length of the building along Rochester Avenue, and the width down President Street.