Showing posts with label jewish fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jewish fiction. Show all posts

Monday, August 28, 2023

As long time EoZ fans know, I am a fan of science fiction - mostly short stories.  

Sometimes I stumble onto a story with Jewish themes, such as the examples linked to above.

While some of them have been decent, I always yearned for science fiction not only with Jewish characters and some Yiddish sprinkled in, but science fiction that had Orthodox Jewish characters or where halacha (Jewish law) plays a role. I always toyed with writing a story about a self-aware robot working for a religious Jewish family who wants to be treated as a human - counted in a minyan, able to build a sukkah, able to write a mezuzah or Sefer Torah. 

This new collection of stories, edited by noted SF writer Michael Burstein, gives me multiple stories that fit what I always wanted to see. 

As with all anthologies, the quality is uneven. But many of these stories are good enough to be included in collections of the best SF of the year. 

Notably, the lion's share of stories - and of the great stories - are written by women. 

Some highlights:

Samantha Katz's Shema has a plot that is not to my liking - the last Jew alive - but Katz is an enormously talented writer for a 16 year old high school student. Jordan King-LaCroix's The Last Chosen explores a similar theme, with a slightly more optimistic ending.

Mission Divergence, by E. M. Ben Shaul, has a very promising setup - a brilliant scientist in Israel finishing up the design of a space laser to protect the country. Unfortunately, the author is not at all familiar with how modern weaponry is designed, and the plot falls flat. It could have been so much better. 
 
Esther Friesner's Rachel Nussbaum Saves the World is an amusing zombie story where a Jewish mother comes up with a very Jewish solution to the menace.

Well known author Harry Turtledove's  One Must Imagine describes a future where Jews are still being pestered to convert to other religions.

Baby Golem, by Barbara Krasnoff, is an amusing story of a non-religious spacefaring woman who is nagged by gentiles to build a golem - so she does, sort of, with entertaining consequences.

Leah Cypress' Frummer House is a laugh-out-loud funny story about smart homes that suddenly enforce a higher level of religiosity on their Jewish residents than they are comfortable with. It is so steeped in frumkeit that it has its own glossary so everyone else could understand it.  For religious Jews who would get the references, the book is worth it for this story alone. 

Politics also comes into some stories. Initial Engagement by Steven H. Silver is about a future where many Israelis split with the religious Jews who have taken over Israel and they move to "Yehudah," the Jewish autonomous oblast of Birobidzhan. Yehuda and Israel do not have diplomatic relations but two of their female ice fencing stars are slated to meet in a sporting competition in Budapest - scheduled for a Shabbat. The story's use of a future world to help us understand  our world is the epitome of what SF should be.

As would be expected, there are a couple of stories of aliens who consider themselves Jewish and an AI that wants to convert, plus one about a physicist who discovers proof of God's existence and whose life is in danger as a result. The latter premise could easily be the basis of a book.

The longest, and best, story in the collection is Moon Melody, by SM Rosenberg, about a young religious Jewish woman who is a telepath who becomes friends with a young non-Jewish man who is a telekinetic empath.. It is outstanding in how it explores the moral issues of their awesome powers and her reluctance to use hers. Judaism isn't a plot device here but it is a major part of the fabric of the story. (It is refreshing to see a story about a deep friendship between a Jewish woman and a non-Jewish man that does not turn romantic.)  I would be surprised and disappointed if Moon Melody is not included in the "Best of the Year" anthologies for 2023.

Altogether, it is a really good collection of stories, with a higher percentage of stories that I enjoy than most anthologies I have read (and I've read a  a lot of them.) 

There have been other Jewish science fiction anthologies - notably the two Wandering Stars collections edited by Jack Dann, who wrote the forward to this volume, and a couple of SF collections from Israeli writers named Zion's Fiction - but this is to my mind by far the best, the most professional, and the most Jewish of all of them. 






Buy the EoZ book, PROTOCOLS: Exposing Modern Antisemitism  today at Amazon!

Or order from your favorite bookseller, using ISBN 9798985708424. 

Read all about it here!

 

 

Friday, November 15, 2013

Two summers ago, for several Fridays I would post a short story - often science fiction - with a Jewish theme. (1, 2 and 3)

A story in the next linkdump reminded me of this science fiction story by Michael A Burstein set in the not too distant future. It was nominated both for the Hugo and Nebula awards.


KADDISH FOR THE LAST SURVIVOR by Michael A. Burstein (2000)



"The deniers' window of opportunity will be enhanced in years to come. The public, particularly the uneducated public, will be increasingly susceptible to Holocaust denial as survivors die....Future generations will not hear the story from people who can say 'this is what happened to me. This is my story.' For them it will be part of the distant past and, consequently, more susceptible to revision and denial."

-- Deborah Lipstadt, Denying the Holocaust (1994)

#

Sarah Jacobson's hands shook as she parked her clunky Volkswagen across the street from the old suburban house in which she had grown up. She sat there, breathing in the gas fumes from the idling engine, as she watched the reporters swarm all over the front lawn.

Her boyfriend, Tom Holloway, sat next to her in the passenger seat. He stared at her for a moment, then asked, "Ready?"

Sarah nodded. As she turned off the car's engine, Tom jumped out of the front seat, dashed around the front of the car, and opened the driver's side door for her. For once, she was grateful for the old-fashioned Southern charm. To think, when she'd first met him, she'd resented it.

Well, she didn't resent it now. Tom was positioning himself to fend off the horde of reporters, and she was grateful for that too. Fortunately, no one had noticed, or else they had not yet connected Sarah to the biggest news story of the week. Tom gave Sarah his hand, and she allowed him to help her out.

She stretched as she got out of the car, feeling the warmth of the spring sunlight on her back. How strange that she could enjoy it, on this morning of all mornings. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, listening to a bird singing in the distance.

Tom's voice intruded upon her brief peace. "Shall we?"

She gave him a small smile. "I guess so."

"OK." Tom looked around, concentrating his gaze at the sea of reporters. "Lot of excitement for a small town on Long Island," he said. Sarah noticed that he was making no effort to suppress his Southern accent; he knew how endearing she found it. "Hard to believe your grandfather's attracting all this attention."

"Yeah," Sarah replied. "I know." She cocked an ear toward the reporters. "Listen."

One radio reporter, close enough to be heard, was speaking into her thumbnail recorder, taping commentary for her story. "This is Paula Dietrich, reporting from Lawrence, Long Island, where Joshua Cohen is dying. Born in Warsaw in the 1920s, Cohen--"

Tom whistled. "He's become a celebrity. Finally got his fifteen minutes of fame."

Sarah shrugged. They'd both studied Warhol. After all, they had both graduated from Harvard with honors. "As far as I'm concerned, he's just my grandfather."

"Yeah, I know," Tom said softly. "Sorry. You sure you're ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, I guess. If I can survive this, I can survive anything." Sarah grabbed Tom's hand. They walked off the sidewalk onto the path leading up to the front door. She braced herself for the barrage.

One of the reporters glanced in their direction, and recognized Sarah. "It's the granddaughter!" he yelled, and began running towards them. In seconds, all of the shouting, sweating journalists had descended upon Sarah and Tom. The way they jostled at each other, trying to get better positions for recording their images, reminded Sarah of a plague of locusts come to feed.

"We'd like to ask you--"

"May I ask you--"

"I have a question--"

"How do you feel?"

"Did you ever think--"

Tom shouted above the Babel of voices. "Please, everyone! Sarah just wants to get inside."

Obviously that was not good enough for the reporters. Instead, they used Tom's interruption to create some semblance of order to their questioning. One reporter took the lead, and the others fell silent.

"Ms. Jacobson, Trevor Hunt, USNA Online. Could you tell us what you're going through at the moment?"

Sarah glanced at Tom and shrugged. It would be easier to answer a few of their questions first, she decided, and then go inside. She looked directly into Hunt's right eye, which glowed red with the lens of an implanted camera. "What anyone would go through when her grandfather is dying, I guess."

"But, Ms. Jacobson!" interjected the radio correspondent they had been listening to earlier. "The circumstances of your grandfather's position--"

Sarah interrupted her. "Listen. I know what my grandfather is to the world, but to me, he's just my grandfather. Now let me go say goodbye to him in peace. I promise I'll talk to you--all of you--later."

Apparently chastened, the reporters parted in front of Sarah and Tom, clearing the path to the front door. As they walked up the path, a background murmuring began, like cats growling at each other over their food. The reporters chatted with their colleagues or recorded views for their broadcasts. Tom whispered to Sarah, "I'm really surprised. They're being more courteous than I would have guessed."

No sooner had Tom said that, when a small man stepped right in front of them, blocking their way. He brushed back his sandy blond hair, and asked, "Ms. Jacobson, why does your family continue to perpetrate this hoax?"

The growling noises of conversation cut off, leaving nothing but the sounds of the cameras and recorders.

At first Sarah thought he was a private citizen, and not a member of the media, as he carried no recording devices and his eyes appeared normal. But a second glance exposed something far more sinister. This man wore a memory recorder implant behind his right ear. His audience, whoever they were, would be able to directly interface with his memories of confronting Sarah, over and over again.

As calmly as she could, Sarah said, "Excuse me?"

The man smiled. "I asked, given the fact that your grandfather, who lived a long and healthy life, is now on his deathbed, why does your family feel the need to perpetuate the hoax of the Holocaust?"

Tom stepped forward, shouting, "Now, listen here, you--"

Sarah gently reached out and grabbed Tom's shoulder. "Tom, stop." She turned to the man. "Excuse me, but I didn't catch your name."

"Sorry. Maxwell Schwab, from the Institute for Historical Revision. I'm doing an article for our academic journal." He waved his hand at the other reporters. "We'd like to know why your family has gone to the trouble of inviting the mass media here, pretending to the world that the Holocaust actually happened and that your grandfather was a victim of this fictional event."

Tom pulled at her arm. "Come on, Sarah, we don't need to listen to this shi--this crap."

Sarah resisted. "No, wait." She pivoted her body to face the reporter. "Mr. Schwab?"

"Yes?"

Sarah slapped him on the face, hard, glad she'd studied self-defense. He staggered back, and fell onto his backside. Sarah hoped it was painful enough to keep people from playing this memory.

Schwab sat there, unmoving, just staring at Sarah. No one bothered to pick him up.

She turned to Tom. "Now, let's go inside."

No one else stopped them.

#

The first thing that hit Sarah as she entered the house was the smell. The odor of stewing meat and potatoes from the kitchen mixed with the old, musty smell that the house always seemed to have whenever Sarah had returned from college. The living room seemed dark, and it took her a moment to realize that all the shades were drawn, probably to keep the reporters from looking in.

She called out to her parents. "Hello? Dad? Mother?"

Her father called back, "In the kitchen, honey, be right out."

Sarah turned to Tom. "Are you going to be OK?"

Tom smiled, shrugged, and took Sarah's hand briefly. "Yeah, I've dealt with her before. It's not too bad."

"She's not your mother, though."

The door to the kitchen swung open. Sarah's parents, Paul and Anna Jacobson, entered the living room. Her father looked calm, cool, and collected, the way that he always looked. He wore a jacket and tie, in stark contrast to the polo shirts and jeans which Tom and she were wearing. Sarah couldn't remember a time when her father wasn't dressed so impeccably. Her mother, on the other hand, wore a sweatshirt and sweatpants, as if dressing well was currently her last priority. She appeared frazzled, with her hair all askew.

Tom greeted them with a simple hello. Sarah's father smiled at Tom, but her mother barely glanced in Tom's direction.

There was a moment of silence, which her father broke. "Come, Tom, I need your help in the kitchen. You can tell me how your family's doing back in Durham. And how about those Mets?"

The two men went through the slow swinging door, which creaked loudly until it finally shut, muffling their awkward conversation about baseball. Sarah and her mother watched the door for a few seconds after it had closed, and then Sarah turned to look at her mother. "I guess," Sarah said, "I ought to go upstairs and see Grampa."

Her mother sniffed. "Sure, go ahead. Do you want to bring your goyische boyfriend upstairs too?"

Damn, Sarah thought, she wasn't going to be reasonable. Surprise, surprise. "Mother, please--"

"And now you're living with him."

Shocked, Sarah took a deep breath. "I never told you that! How did you find out?"

Her mother grinned. "Just now, Sarah. You may be my smart Harvard daughter, but you're not smarter than me."

Sarah felt furious, but more with herself than with her mother. Anna Jacobson had done it again, pretending to know something so as to trick the information out of Sarah. Damn! How could she have been so stupid? Well, as long as Mother had figured it out, Sarah might as well get everything out in the open.

"I was going to tell you anyway, Mother. Today, in fact. Tom and I are living together We have been for a while now."

Her mother glared at her and Sarah said, "I don't care how you feel about it. And anyway, things are different now."

"Such defiance," her mother said, making clucking sounds with her tongue. "And things being different isn't an excuse."

"You're right, Mother," Sarah said as sarcastically as she could. "An economic depression is no excuse for being unable to afford my own apartment."

"Now Sarah--"

"'Now Sarah,' what?" Sarah slammed the doorframe with her palm. "It's not like you have the money to help out; you still live here, in the oldest house in the neighborhood. You can't even afford automatic doors. Well, I can't afford to live by myself. No one right out of school can, not with our loans. And as it is--" She paused for a moment, then took the plunge. "As it is, Tom and I will probably be getting married soon anyway."

There. The big secret was out. Sarah studied her mother's face carefully; it seemed completely shut down. Her mother just stared at her, stonily, not reacting. Finally, Sarah couldn't take the silence any longer. "Well?" she asked. "Aren't you going to say something?"

Her mother sighed. "Sarah, it isn't Tom. He's a nice boy, and I do like him. But I�-and your father�-would prefer that you marry someone Jewish."

"Why?"

"Why? What do you mean, why?"

"Exactly what I said, Mother." She spoke crisply, trying to imitate the Cambridge accent of some of her professors. "Why?"

Her mother looked over Sarah's shoulder. Was it possible she had never really considered this question before? After a few seconds, Sarah's impatience got the better of her again. "Is it because of Grampa? Because he's the last one?"

Her mother immediately replied, "No! It's because you're Jewish. And it surprises me you'd even think of marrying someone who isn't."

Sarah shook her head and sighed. "You know, Mother, you shouldn't be so surprised. You never raised me as Jewish."

Her mother's eyes, filled with shame and fear, locked onto Sarah's. "That's not true," she said softly.

Sarah nodded and went back to being sarcastic. "Yeah, Mother. Matzoh ball soup on Passover, and Chinese food and a movie on Christmas. Should have been enough for me, right? That didn't make me Jewish; it just made me a different type of American. And that's how you and Dad raised me, as an American."

Her mother stood still for a moment, then sank onto one of the cushioned chairs. It sighed, sending dust into the air. "I can't believe it," she said, shaking her head. "I'm doing what I said I never would."

Confused, Sarah asked, "What are you talking about?"

Her mother seemed to go through an internal struggle, and when she spoke next, her words were chosen with care. "Sarah, I guess you were right, in a way. It is because of Grampa that I want you to marry someone Jewish, but it's also because of Grampa that I never really made that clear. Because--because I wanted to protect you."

"Protect me?" Sarah felt surprised; the only things her mother had ever tried to protect her from were strangers and bad grades.

"Yes, Sarah, protect you. I mean, just look outside at that mob of reporters. You don't know what it's like growing up as the only child of a survivor. I had to grow up listening to all these stories over and over, all this pressure on me from your grandfather. Because of the Holocaust. All that pressure you're feeling from me--I felt it from him. He's dying now, and I still feel it." Her voice trembled, but she clamped her mouth shut.

"Because of the Holocaust? Mother, Grampa was never very religious; you told me that yourself. And I don't see how the Holocaust is a reason to marry someone Jewish."

"Why not?" she asked softly.

Sarah considered the question. "I know something of our religion," she said without conviction. Somehow, that was the one thing she had never gotten around to studying while at Harvard. "The Holocaust is not exactly a--a defining event in Judaism."

Her mother shook her head. "Oh, yes it is. After all, Sarah, by intermarrying, aren't you denying what it is about you that made the Nazis try to wipe us out? Some would say that you're letting Hitler win. After all these years."

Sarah didn't know what to say to that; it made her angry and upset, and choked her up. But her mother continued. "Sarah, these were all the things I had to grow up with from your grandfather. I don't know what it was like firsthand to be in the camps, thank God, and God forbid that anyone ever will again. But to your grandfather, his experience there was always more real than the rest of his life. More real than the people in his life."

Her mother paused for a moment, than said, "It was even more real to him than me."

"Oh," Sarah finally managed to say.

"Your grandfather felt that every minute of life had to be devoted to reminding the world. Except instead of bothering the world, he bothered your grandmother and me. When you were born, I promised myself that I wouldn't let him warp your life the way he warped mine."

"But your life isn't--" Sarah cut herself off.

Her mother chuckled bitterly. "It isn't warped? Sarah, compare your life to mine; you've always had more choices than I did. In my day, there was still so much women couldn't do, or wouldn't be allowed to do. Things were good for a while, but then when the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, it was like the clock turned backwards for all women. And for a Jewish woman, the only daughter of a survivor--" She stopped.

"Yes, Mother?"

"Let's just say that your father was not the first man I wanted to marry. But your grandfather, well..." She trailed off.

There was nothing Sarah could think of in reply, and her mother gave her a sad smile. "Now maybe, you understand," she whispered.

"And maybe you do too," Sarah whispered back, a question and a statement at the same time.

Mother and daughter regarded each other for a moment, and then Sarah spoke. "I'm going upstairs to see Grampa, Mother. It's my last chance."

Her mother sighed. "Go. I've already made my peace with him. We'll talk more later, after--when there isn't so little time."

#

Grampa looked so weak lying in the hospital bed that U.S. Hospice had provided. Where was the strong man of Sarah's childhood, the Grampa who had carried her on his shoulders at the playground, who had comforted her on her first frightening day of school, who had attended her high school graduation just five years ago? This old frail shell of a man, lying in bed with blankets around his thin body and snoring weakly--Sarah couldn't reconcile him with her memories of her grandfather.

Then, tattooed upon his left arm, she saw the number: 110290. It had always been there. She remembered that first time she had asked Grampa about it. She'd been six years old. He had taken her to the playground near the house, on a hot summer day. Grampa took off the raincoat he always wore, sat on a bench with other old people, and let Sarah run off and play while he "snoozed and schmoozed," as he liked to call it. She never understood how he could sleep with all the noise from all the children playing, but Grampa seemed able to sleep anywhere. It might have scared her, but he always woke up when she called him.

When she returned, she was shocked to see that Grampa had rolled up his sleeves because of the heat. Grampa never rolled up his sleeves.

"Grampa," Sarah had asked, "what's that?" Her little fingers reached out to touch the number.

He woke instantly. "What is what?"

"That number. What is it?"

Grampa saw what she was looking at and quickly rolled down his sleeve. "Better you shouldn't ask," he said, and glared at her. Then his face softened. "Saraleh, how old are you again?"

She laughed. "Six, silly!"

"Six." He looked into the distance for a moment. "I had a sister who was six, once. She never got to be seven."

Grampa had had a sister? Sarah had never heard of this before. "What was her name?"

"Sarah. You were named for her." He looked at his left arm, and rolled the sleeve back up, displaying the tattoo. "I was sixteen; that was when I got the number. Sarah, forget what I said before. It is better that you ask. You must ask. And remember."

He had told her of the horrors of the camp. Of how his own grandfather had disappeared one night. Of how he, his parents, and his little sister were taken away in cattle cars from their home to a place called Auschwitz, where they were separated, and how he never saw them again. Of how he had very little to eat, all of it bad. Of how he had to endure the beatings of the guards. Of how he got sick with typhus and thought that he would be sent to the gas chambers and turned into smoke and ash. Of how they marched him to Buchenwald, and how he almost collapsed and died along the way. Of how he was barely able to move when the Americans came to liberate them, and how two righteous Gentiles whose names had sounded Jewish, Sergeant Rosenthal and Corporal Glaub, had attended to him and nursed him back to health.

His stories had seemed so incongruous in the bright, sunny playground filled with the laughter of little children, and at first Sarah thought he was making them up. But as the stories continued and got more horrible, Sarah became mesmerized. When he finished, Grampa had tears in his eyes. She hugged him, and he trembled just like Sarah did when she woke up from a nightmare.

That night, so many years ago, the rain had pounded on Sarah's bedroom window like gunshots. It was a hot, humid night, and as Sarah drifted off to sleep she thought of all her grandfather had told her. She dreamed of being stuffed into a gas chamber, the stink and sweat of human flesh pressing on her from all sides, Nazi stormtroopers shooting people outside, human flesh burning, going up in sweet-smelling smoke--

And she awoke, screaming and crying. Her mother had come in and held her for a long time. When she found out about Sarah's dreams, she promised Sarah that she would never have such dreams again. From that day on, Grampa never took Sarah to the playground alone. And the nightmares had faded away and disappeared, except for the memory of the number on Grampa's arm: 110290.

Sarah shook her head, clearing away the memories of that long ago night, and looked at the bed. The frail old man wrapped in blankets had that same number, 110290, tattooed on his arm. There was no question in Sarah's mind now, that this man was her grandfather, lying in his bed.

And dying.

I shouldn't disturb him, Sarah thought, and had turned around to leave the room when she heard his voice. "Who's there?" Even when he was dying, he woke to the sound of her.

She turned back; her grandfather's eyes were open. "It's Sarah, Grampa."

He smiled. "Saraleh, it's good to see you." He struggled to sit up in bed, and coughed. "Here, come sit next to me, on the bed. We'll have one last chance to snooze and schmooze before I go."

"Grampa! Don't talk like that." She moved his blankets over and sat down.

"Sarah, Sarah. Years ago, it would have been tempting the evil eye to say such things, but now...now I am dying. And I am looking forward to peace. I have not had a peaceful life, mameleh."

"I know."

"So nu. Tell me, how are things? What are you doing with yourself?"

Sarah shifted around. "Well, I'm living in New York City now, you know. I'm working for a web publisher. Editing."

"And are you enjoying it?"

"I suppose, although what I'd really like to do is write."

"Eh. And are you seeing anyone? I want great-grandchildren, you know."

He laughed, and Sarah joined in. "You remember Tom, don't you? We're living--I mean, he's now at NYU, in law school."

Grampa fixed Sarah with a long gaze. "So, you're living together?"

Sarah blushed. "Yes. Um, I tried to keep it a secret. I'm sorry."

"What is there to be sorry about?"

"Well, it's just..." Sarah trailed off.

"It's OK, Saraleh. I understand your generation. It is not that much different from mine."

"But you don't approve of Tom, do you?"

Grampa sighed. "Tom's a good boy, a fine young man. I would have preferred if you had met someone Jewish, but I can't fault you for your choice. He will make a good husband."

Sarah thought for a moment. "Grampa, can I ask you something?"

"Anything, mameleh. But you'd better hurry." They both smiled at that. Sarah blinked hard, to stop the tears.

"Why is it so important to you that I marry someone Jewish? It's not like you were ever religious or observant."

Grampa closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You ask such a difficult question, like the simple child's question about the Passover seder. It's true, I never was observant, not before the camp, or after. But, Sarah, because of where I was--Auschwitz-- your children have to remember, they have to know what they are and understand where they came from. I need them to be Jewish, and not just because you are. They have to know that they are Jewish."

"But why?"

He sighed. "Because if they do not realize who they are, they will be the first to go to the gas chambers the next time there is a Holocaust."

Sarah was shocked. "Grampa, you can't seriously believe that it could happen again. The Holocaust is a distant memory from the last century. Even if it did happen--"

"If it happens...when it happens, God forbid, again, the first Jews to die will be the ones who don't realize they are Jewish. The German Jews saw what Hitler was doing. They were Germans, they said, not Jews. What Hitler is doing doesn't apply to us. They never believed it would...until it was too late."

"But it couldn't happen again. Could it?"

Grampa was silent for a moment. "Sarah, your generation grew up in a world that felt much safer than mine. We made it that way. Maybe it really wasn't so safe, maybe we weren't so bright, but your parents and I certainly tried to protect you from the world outside. Maybe we succeeded too well.

"It is because you feel so safe and because the Holocaust is so distant, that your generation is in danger. People are forgetting. The Holocaust Museum in Washington lost its funding and is gone now, after only thirty years, because no one thought it was important anymore. Auschwitz--Auschwitz is now a side attraction for people going to the VR mall across the way." Straining, he bent his head over and spit on the floor. "There are even people who claim the Holocaust never happened in the first place, people who are being taken far too seriously."

"I know what you mean. Just outside--" Sarah bit her lip.

But it was too late. "What? What happened outside?"

Sarah shrugged. "A reporter. He--he accused us of making it all up."

Grampa frowned, his voice bitter. "Always," he said. "Always the big lie. Well, they wouldn't let me live in peace. Why should I expect then to let me die in peace?"

"It was only one, Grampa," Sarah said, dismissively. "The other reporters are--I mean, they know it's for real."

"Even one person denying the truth is one person too many." He sighed. "The deniers are everywhere, Sarah. They started when I was just out of the camps, telling me that the horrible things I had seen with my own eyes never existed. Telling me I was crazy. But there were always enough of us around, to educate, to lecture, to write, to bear witness for the world. But now--"

He coughed, loud, long, and hard. Sarah stood up. "Grampa, you must rest. You're letting yourself get all worked up. I'll go get you some water."

He shook his head and waved for her to sit back down again. "Please, Sarah, wait. I don't have much time, and this is far too important."

She sat down again. "Yes, Grampa, what is it?"

"Sarah, you must promise me. After I am gone, there will be no one to bear witness. I am the last of the survivors. You must bear witness for me--for all of us, the six million who died and those who survived to tell the world." He took her left hand in a grip that was surprisingly strong.

Now the tears welled up in her eyes, past her strength to hold them back. She began to weep. "Yes, Grampa, I will."

Her tears blurred her sight, and Sarah wiped them away. As her vision cleared, Sarah noticed Grampa staring directly into her eyes.

"Sarah, listen carefully. I want you to open that drawer over there." With his right hand, Grampa pointed to the top drawer of the bureau. Sarah let go of his left hand, dutifully walked over to the bureau, and pulled the drawer open. It contained only one item, a shiny small metal box with the logo MEMVOX printed across the side. She pulled it out and turned it around, studying it.

"My God, Grampa," she said. "Is this what I think it is?"

He nodded. "A memory recorder. The chip is inside."

Sarah hesitated before asking her next question. She feared she already knew the answer. "Grampa...what's on it?"

He coughed. "Me. When I am gone, I want you to play it."

Sarah now understood what Grampa had meant about her bearing witness. She shook her head. "I can't do this, Grampa."

"You will do the right thing, I am sure of it. Sarah, you must. You're young, you're strong, you can handle it. When you play that chip, you will be the last survivor." He coughed. "Zachor. Remember. Bear witness, from generation to generation." He turned away from her, and began to recite the Jewish affirmation in the existence of God, "Sh'ma Yisroel..." His voice trailed off. His breath faded. Then it ceased entirely.

Sarah wiped the tears from her eyes. She stood up, then covered her grandfather's face with the blanket. She finished reciting the Sh'ma for her grandfather in English; she hadn't realized that she remembered: Hear, O Israel, the Lord is God, the Lord is One. She turned off the light and left, closing the door silently behind her.

#

That night, Sarah sat alone in the bedroom of the two-room Manhattan apartment she shared with Tom. She had asked Tom for some privacy, and he had readily agreed; so he was in their living room, watching TV or logged onto the Internet, Sarah wasn't sure. Tom had assumed that the stress of the quick late afternoon funeral and burial was what had prompted Sarah to ask for some time to herself, and she had chosen not to correct him. She was glad that Jewish tradition held that a funeral and burial should take place as soon as possible after death; she had a lot to think about, and didn't want to have to worry about seeing her mother again so soon after Grampa's death.

On the small night table in front of her sat the memory recorder and the chip. She picked up the chip and turned it over and over in her hands. Grampa had labeled it in black ink with his name and date of birth. Sarah had written in today's date at the bottom of the label, in blue ink, but that was all she had done so far. Tom had given her the privacy she requested over half an hour ago, and Sarah still wasn't sure what to do.

A wastebasket sat next to their second-hand full-size bed. Sarah could just drop the chip into it, and never think of it again. Or she could take it to a recycling center, and get some small amount of money for it. As for the memory recorder, although used, it was valuable, and could easily pay the rent for the next few months.

But that would almost be like desecrating her grandfather's grave. Grampa had given her the recorder and the chip for a reason. He wanted her to play it, to share those experiences with her. She thought about those experiences, the stories he had told her about the Holocaust when she was six years old; and she realized that she would never want to live through it herself, even vicariously through someone else's memories. She held the chip above the wastebasket, ready to let it fall--

--And then she remembered the reporter from this morning.

She had to fulfill her promise; her grandfather had depended on it. Quickly, so she would not be tempted into changing her mind again, she inserted the chip into the recorder, attached the wires to her head, and hit PLAY.

An hour later, when the chip had finished playing, she slowly removed the wires. She shuddered and began to cry, but softly, so as not to alert Tom. She removed the chip from the recorder and stored it safely away. The memories from her grandfather's Holocaust experiences precipitated in her a decision, a choice; she just hoped that Tom would understand. She knew that she would have to find someone knowledgeable about computers and recorders, someone sympathetic to her position who could hack the Internet and force Grampa's memory records to be played by anyone plugging in, at least for a short while. Sarah would come forward and take responsibility, once she was assured that no one would ever take the revisionists seriously again. But...if she went forward with this plan, to bear witness for her grandfather, there was one other step she needed to take first.

#

Sarah walked into the tiny store, a remnant of the old Times Square, struggling against the gentrification of the past thirty years. Most places of this sort had moved to the outer boroughs of Queens and Brooklyn, but this one was still here. The sign above the glass bore the one word ADULT, in large black letters, and hanging in the window Sarah could see signs promising things like fake ID chips and real tobacco cigarettes.

She strode in purposefully, ignored the grime of the floor and shelves, and walked through to the room in the back, where the guy she was looking for worked. The room was small, empty at the moment except for the artist, who was reading a newstape as she entered. His appearance repulsed her, as he had rings through his nose, ears, and eyebrows, and he also sported tattoos on his arms and face. She would never see a person like this socially, but she was here for something else. The guy looked up at her inquisitively as she approached.

"Hello," she said. "I'd--I'd like to get a tattoo. Can you tattoo on a number?"

"Sure," he said, putting down the newstape. "I can do anything."

"Good." Sarah sat on the long chair meant for his clients and rolled up the sleeve of her left arm. "I want you to tattoo the number 110290 right here."

The man looked askance at her. "Like a Holocaust victim?"

Sarah nodded, pleased that the guy recognized what she wanted. She would still go through with her plan, but for the first time since her grandfather died, she thought that perhaps there was still hope for the world to remember its history after all. "Yes," she said. "Exactly like that."

Friday, June 15, 2012

Continuing my Friday series of science fiction/fantasy stories with Jewish themes, here is Lifeblood, by Michael A. Burstein:

Lincoln Kliman burst into the synagogue, causing the cantor at the front of the room to halt his chanting momentarily. Lincoln panted, catching his breath, and the congregants turned to look at him. He knew his disheveled appearance would not endear him to them, and he noticed one or two of the congregants scowling.
The cantor resumed his Hebrew chant, and Lincoln took a moment to study the synagogue. It wasn’t a synagogue really, just a small room where these particular Jews gathered to pray. There were three rows of folding chairs set up, mostly empty of people, which gave the room an aura of despair, at least for Lincoln. He was used to much more elaborate synagogues, but then again, he hadn’t been in one for over fifteen years.
He counted the number of congregants. Ten men, exactly the minimum number of Jews required for a minyan. Technically, Lincoln’s presence made the number eleven.
He approached a man sitting alone in the back row, bent over and murmuring to himself.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but—”
The man looked up from his siddur, his prayer book, and waved his hand to quiet Lincoln. “Shush,” he said. “Put on a yarmulka.”
Lincoln nodded and went to the back of the room to don a skullcap, another thing he hadn’t done in a very long time. He sat down next to the man and said, as quietly as he could, “I must speak with the cantor. It’s important.”
The man glared at him. “You must wait. We’re about to do the Alenu; the service will be over soon.” His tone was accusatory, as if he was questioning Lincoln’s right to show up at the end of a service.
Lincoln wondered that himself, but felt better when he realized that he still remembered to stand and bow at the appropriate times. He didn’t pray, though. The man next to him offered his siddur, but Lincoln shook his head; he couldn’t read Hebrew anymore even well enough to pronounce the words, let alone understand them.
True to the man’s word, the service ended in a few minutes. The congregants began folding the chairs and stacking them up next to the wall. Lincoln muttered, “Excuse me,” to his row companion, and darted to the front of the room. The cantor was just removing his tallis, his prayer shawl, when Lincoln approached. He was an old man, slightly stooped, with a pair of round glasses on his face.
Despite the fact that Lincoln had interrupted him before, the cantor smiled as he folded his tallis. “Good shabbes,” he said. He spoke with a slight Hungarian accent.
Lincoln repeated the phrase; it echoed oddly in his ears. “Good shabbes, Cantor—?”
“Erno Gross. How may I help you?”
Lincoln’s eyes darted around the room. Two congregants were opening boxes of little pastries and setting them out on a table, and speaking in a language Lincoln didn’t recognize. Another man hummed, and poured small cups of red wine out of a dark bottle. Lincoln almost shuddered at that, but controlled himself.
“Cantor, where is your rabbi? I need to speak with him.”
The cantor sighed. “Unfortunately, we have no rabbi. Rabbi Weinberg, a dear friend of mine, was the last rabbi to serve this congregation. We are a small group, and so can’t offer a new rabbi enough of an incentive to join us on a permanent basis. Not that one is needed for a service, you must know.”
Lincoln felt embarrassed. “Actually, I didn’t know. But if you have no rabbi, then all hope is lost. The others—” He shook his head.
“Perhaps all is not lost,” said the cantor. He put his hand on Lincoln’s shoulder. “Perhaps I can help you, Mister—?”
“Kliman, with a long ‘i.’ Lincoln Kliman.”
“Lincoln. An odd name, for a Jew.”
Lincoln shrugged. “My father was a historian, studied American history.” He was used to explaining it.
“Very well, Mr. Kliman. How can I help you?”
“Not here. Can we go talk alone some—”
Lincoln was interrupted by shouts of “Erno!” The cantor said, “Excuse me a moment; I must make kiddush.” He gave Lincoln an odd look. “Unless you would rather do the honors?”
Lincoln felt his face flush. “Uh, no thank you, Cantor, I really would rather not.”
The cantor nodded. “At least take a cup of wine.”
Lincoln assented, and tried not to look uncomfortable as the cantor began chanting kiddush and the others joined in. The only words he remembered was the last part of the blessing over wine, borai p’ri hagafen, and after the cantor sang it, Lincoln chorused “Amen” with the rest of the congregation.
The wine tasted sweet going down his throat.
Lincoln walked over to a small bookcase afterwards, studying the titles as the cantor circulated among the congregation. One by one, the elderly men put on their coats and left the room, until finally, the cantor came over to Lincoln.
“I believe you wanted to talk with me alone?” he said.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Kliman?”
Lincoln looked into the cantor’s eyes. “There is a boy. My son. He’s very sick.”
“Sick? Shouldn’t you be fetching a doctor, and not a rabbi? Unless…” The cantor looked grim.
“It’s not that kind of illness, not physical.”
“Spiritual?”
Lincoln thought for a moment. “Cantor, may I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Have you studied KabaKaba—Jewish mysticism?”
Kabala. Why do you ask?”
“You believe in God, right?” Lincoln blurted.
The cantor looked shocked. “An impudent question, Mr. Kliman, but yes, of course I believe in God. I devoted my life to helping the Jewish people practice our religion.” There was a chastising tone in his voice; Lincoln noticed that he slightly stressed the word “our.”
“I didn’t mean to question your faith, Cantor,” Lincoln said. “I just don’t want you to think I’m crazy. I needed to know that you can accept the possibility of something out there that you have no direct evidence for, something—something mystical.”
“As a Jew,” the cantor said, “I have all the evidence I need for God in seeing the wonders of the Earth each and every day. I rise from bed with praise of Him on my lips and I go to sleep the same way. That does not necessarily mean that I will believe in anything at all, Mr. Kliman.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that—well, I needed to find a religious man, a religious leader, and I didn’t feel comfortable going to a Catholic priest. I thought a rabbi could help as well.”
“Help with what, Mr. Kliman? You barge in here, claim to be worried about your son, and then question my faith. What do you need my help with?”
Lincoln looked down at his shoes for a moment and wrung his hands. “I’ll have to trust you. My son’s been bitten, and I need you to lift the curse.”
“Bitten? By a dog? Better to see a doctor.”
“No, not a dog. Cantor, my son Joseph has been bitten three times by a vampire. And unless I can find a cure by sundown tonight, he’s going to turn into one himself.”
An hour later, Lincoln and the cantor arrived at Lincoln’s apartment building. It would have taken only ten minutes if they had driven, but the cantor would not ride on the Sabbath, and so Lincoln left his car parked at the synagogue. Although it was early spring, the weather was cold and overcast, and Lincoln had to bundle himself up in his thin jacket as best as he could while they walked.
When they got to his building, the cantor also refused to take the elevator up to Lincoln’s ninth floor apartment, so they slowly climbed the stairs.
The cantor had been decidedly uncommunicative during the walk over, but as they ascended he began to ask Lincoln about the boy.
“Tell me exactly what it is you think happened.”
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
The cantor shrugged. “That remains to be seen. But I will tell you this much: I find what you describe hard to believe.”
Lincoln sighed. “Well, you’ve trusted me this far, at least. I appreciate that. The others refused to even listen to me.”
“The others?”
Lincoln felt his cheeks redden. “Yours wasn’t the first synagogue I went to, Cantor. I tried a Reform temple and a Conservative synagogue first, but neither of the rabbis believed me. They wouldn’t help.”
The cantor nodded, stopped at a landing to catch his breath. “The boy,” he prodded.
“Yes. The boy. Joseph is a pretty good kid, does well in school and all that, but recently has been acting very independent. He’s just turned twelve; you know what that means.”
The cantor shook his head. “Go on.”
“Anyway, it started when Joseph came home very late from school three weeks ago. It’s only a few blocks away, and I’ve let him run around the neighborhood before. I mean, I grew up in New York as well, and I never got in serious trouble. But this time he didn’t call.”
“Don’t you meet him after school to bring him home?”
“I can’t. I work.”
“What about the boy’s mother?”
Lincoln looked away from the cantor. “Gone, these past five years.”
“Oh. I am sorry, Mr. Kliman.”
“Thanks. It’s been hard, raising Joseph on my own. Anyway, he finally did come home that night, well after sundown, and he looked terrible. His color was bad, and he looked sick to his stomach. I thought it was food poisoning, as he smelled like he’d been to a fast food place. You know, that cheeseburger smell.”
The cantor glared at him. “No, I do not know.”
Lincoln felt embarrassed again. “Right. Well, anyway, he practically passed out when he came in the door, and I rushed him to the doctor.”
“Nu? What did he find?”
“Anemia. Loss of blood. That and two tiny pinpricks on Joseph’s neck.”
“Hm. Did he say anything about that?”
“No. He gave Joseph a shot of something, chastised him and me over drug use, and that was all. Only thing is, he didn’t find drugs in Joseph’s system.
“Joseph refused to answer my questions about where he was that night, and the next day he acted like he had forgotten the whole thing. His color had returned, though, and he ate a big breakfast, so I let him go to school. The next day he came home on time, and I thought that would be the end of it.”
“I presume it was not.”
“Well, it was for about a week. Then the same thing happened. He came home late, looking very sick, and he almost passed out before I could get him to bed.”
The cantor’s eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t bring him to the doctor this time?”
Lincoln shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I know what you’re thinking, but after that first time, I didn’t want the doctor to chastise me again.”
“And did you send Joseph to school again the next day?”
“No, because it was Saturday. A week ago today.”
“That makes two bites.”
“The third one was last night. Same pattern, only this time Joseph told me the full story. Apparently the vampire—”
“Yes?” the cantor prodded.
Lincoln whispered. “I’d rather not say. Let’s just say that she promised to show Joseph a good time, and being the adolescent that he is…”
“I understand. You need not elaborate.”
They had reached the door to Lincoln’s apartment, and Lincoln let them in. The room was dark. Lincoln turned on the light and then pulled his hand back from the switch. “Sorry. I forgot, no lights on shabbat, right?”
“No using electricity,” replied the cantor. “But you can leave lights on from the day before. Where is the boy?”
“This way.” Lincoln showed the cantor through the living room to a small bedroom. They entered and closed the door behind them. It was dark inside. A small figure writhed under the blankets of the bed.
“I’m not going to turn the lights on in here. Joseph asked me not to. He says it hurts his eyes.”
The boy moaned from under the blankets. “Dad? Is that you?”
“Yes, Joseph, and I’ve brought help.”
Joseph coughed. “I’m so sorry, Dad. I don’t know what got into me. Lily promised so much pleasure, but this is all pain.”
“It’s okay, son.” To the cantor he said, “Please look at him. You’ll see that I didn’t lie to you. Then maybe you can tell me what to do.”
The cantor approached the bed, and slowly removed the sheets. All he could make out was the outline of a shivering child.
“Joseph, I will need light to see you. May I open the shades?”
“Yes,” the boy replied weakly, “but please be quick.” He moaned again.
The cantor pulled up a window shade, allowing sunlight to fall upon Joseph, who screamed. “It hurts! It hurts! It’s too hot! Make it stop!”
“Quiet, Joseph,” Lincoln said. “It’ll only be for a second.” He opened the window, and a breeze drifted in. “There, that will cool you off.”
The cantor turned back to Joseph, who quieted down but was clearly in great pain. The boy’s face was pale, but his lips were a bright red and there was a reddish tinge in his eyes. The cantor cupped the boy’s chin in his hand and pulled open his mouth.
His canine teeth were half an inch long, and glowing brightly in a sickening mixture of orange, red, and white.
He jerked his hand away and the boy’s head fell to the pillow. “Dear Lord. You were right.”
A few minutes later, Lincoln and the cantor sat across from each other in the living room, where they could talk. Joseph had passed out again, and Lincoln had restored the bedroom to darkness for his son’s comfort.
“I find it difficult to believe that a Jew could be turned into a vampire, even if he were bitten by one. Possession by a dybbuk, perhaps, but not transformation into a vampire. Vampires are not part of the Jewish Kabala. They are part of Christian lore, not Jewish. They should only be able to affect Christians.”
“Perhaps,” said Lincoln slowly, “it’s because Joseph has not yet been Bar Mitzvahed. He won’t turn thirteen until next year.”
The cantor looked startled. “That doesn’t make sense at all. One does not become Jewish when one is Bar Mitzvah. You are Jewish at birth, and you join the covenant at the age of eight days.”
Lincoln’s eyes lit up. “Cantor, can’t you do it anyway?”
“Do what?”
“Bar Mitzvah the boy? So he’ll be an adult? Maybe that’s the key to saving him!”
The cantor gave Lincoln a hard stare. “Mr. Kliman, you seem to be under the impression that a Bar Mitzvah ceremony is a magical ritual that will establish the boy as Jewish and render him immune to the vampirism. Bar Mitzvah is not a ceremony; it happens to a Jewish boy at the age of thirteen even if no ceremony occurs. All it means is that the Jew becomes responsible for his own actions in the eyes of God. It is akin to turning eighteen, and becoming an adult in the eyes of the law.”
“Cantor Gross.” Lincoln leaned forward. He felt tears on the side of his face. “Joseph is my only son, my only family. He is all that I have left. I beg of you, would you please do this? You don’t know that it isn’t the thing to do. It may save him.”
The cantor looked deep into Lincoln’s eyes. “There is nothing logical in your request, but I must agree. I don’t know that it won’t work.”
He stood up. “Let me return to the synagogue and get a siddur and chumash.”
Chumash?” Lincoln asked.
“The Torah, Mr. Kliman, with all the passages we recite aloud on shabbat as the year progresses. Surely you know what the Torah is.”
“Yes,” Lincoln said quietly.
“Very well,” the cantor said as he headed towards the door. “I shall return soon, and with God’s help, we shall teach the boy to fight the curse of the dead with the ancient songs of life.”
“Repeat after me, Joseph: Baruch atah…”
Baruch atah,” the boy said weakly.
“No,” said the cantor. “Sing it. As I am.”
“Why do I have to sing? It hurts so much.”
“It is a Hasidic custom, Joseph. It will help you concentrate your thoughts to the spiritual task at hand. Listen again…”
Lincoln closed the door of the bedroom behind him and sat down to read. The song of the cantor filtered out through the closed door, haunting and lilting. It was a chant that went up and down in pitch, but always seemed to hover around the same notes. Its effects were so hypnotic, that Lincoln forwent his book, closed his eyes, and leaned back to contemplate the past.
He remembered his own Bar Mitzvah ceremony, and the agony that led up to it for almost half a year. Every Wednesday afternoon he had gone to the cantor’s office to learn his Torah portion, the verses of the Torah that he would be expected to sing on the Saturday morning of the ceremony. Lincoln’s voice was not good, and its cracking had embarrassed him.
Finally, the day arrived. He had stood in front of a large synagogue filled with his parents’ friends, and a few of his own. He was called to the Torah, and trembling with nervousness, somehow he had managed to get through it.
The very next week his parents pulled him out of Hebrew School. They had never been particularly religious anyway. Lincoln’s Bar Mitzvah had been solely a social thing, and once it was over, they had felt no need for Lincoln to continue his Jewish studies.
Perhaps they had been mistaken.
Lincoln blinked, and realized that he was back in his apartment. He was surprised to see that many hours had passed. The cantor’s music had been so powerful that it had felt to Lincoln as if he had actually been sent back in time to relive his own Bar Mitzvah. He strained to hear the final words of song coming from his son’s bedroom.
“…nosain hatora-ah.” Was that his son’s voice, sounding so strong?
A minute later, the cantor opened the door and approached Lincoln. He had a sad look on his face. “It did not work. I helped the boy sing today’s parsha, with the appropriate blessings before and after, but it did not work.”
He sat down across from Lincoln and said, “I did not think it would.”
“But your music—your singing—so beautiful.”
The cantor nodded. “Thank you. But it takes more than beautiful singing to ward off a curse.”
He leaned back, removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I still do not understand how this is possible, Mr. Kliman, how a Jew could be turned into a vampire. Nothing in our history, in our legends, would account for it. A Jew simply cannot become a vampire.”
Lincoln coughed and cleared his throat. “Ummm.”
The cantor peered at him. “What is it, Mr. Kliman? Was there something you did not tell me?”
“Well…” Lincoln shifted in his seat. “Cantor, I didn’t want to admit this before, but…” He trailed off.
“But what? How can I help the boy if you don’t tell me what I need to know?”
“Joseph’s not Jewish,” he blurted out.
There was a moment of silence. “You are Jewish, are you not?” the cantor asked.
“Yes,” Lincoln whispered.
“Then his mother—”
“She wasn’t.”
The cantor sighed. “Oy. You know that by Jewish law, the boy follows the religion of the mother. What was she?”
Lincoln shrugged. “I don’t know. Christian of some sort, I guess. We were both agnostic when we met, and I never really bothered to find out, since we never celebrated any holidays anyway.”
“You lied to me, Mr. Kliman. You said your son was Jewish.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But like I said, I would never have felt comfortable asking a priest or a reverend for help. I may not practice my religion much, Cantor, but I would never—”
The cantor interrupted. “A thought occurs to me. Was the boy ever circumcised?”
“Well, yes. By a doctor in the hospital when—”
The cantor leaped out of his seat, startling Lincoln. “That may be it.” He marched towards the bedroom door.
“What may be it?” Lincoln asked.
The cantor stopped short and turned back to Lincoln. “The boy may yet be saved. The vampirism is affecting him because technically, he is not Jewish. And yet, he has your Jewish blood within him. So I shall make the vampire think he is Jewish.”
“You mean—”
“I mean that I shall convert him.”
Lincoln sputtered. “But—but—I thought conversion was something that took study, and time!”
The cantor gave him an odd look. “You know little of the ways of your own people, and yet you are familiar with the conversion ceremony?”
“Um—it’s a long story. My wife wasn’t Jewish, but my parents wanted her to convert.”
The cantor nodded. “A familiar pattern. The parents who never teach their child about Judaism, and are surprised when he chooses to marry outside the tribe. At any rate, you are correct. A real conversion requires the person converting to study Judaism, and present his or her knowledge to a Bes Din, a court of three rabbis. A man must undergo circumcision, or if he is already circumcised, a tiny drop of blood is sufficient. Then he must be brought to the mikvah, the ritual pool, to be immersed and to make a blessing that declares his decision to become Jewish. And none of this can be done on shabbes.
“But time here is of the essence, Mr. Kliman, as the boy’s life is in danger, and God is not without mercy. There is a principle called pikuach nefesh, which states that saving a life overrides all else. Indeed, the Talmud states that he who saves a life, it is as if he has saved the entire world. I will teach the boy the proper blessings, perform the proper rituals. I am sure that once the boy is saved, you will take steps to ensure that his conversion remains valid. Otherwise the vampirism may return.”
Lincoln nodded weakly. “If you save Joseph, I will do anything. He’s all I have.”
The cantor nodded back and opened the door to Joseph’s bedroom. Just before entering, he said, “Ironic, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“The vampire has been drawing blood to doom the boy. Now I shall draw blood to save him.”
Lincoln couldn’t stand the sight of blood, but he had to know what was going on. So after a few minutes of pacing around the apartment and saying what prayers he could recall, he entered Joseph’s bedroom.
The cantor sat on the bed next to Joseph, holding his hand and cradling his head. Joseph was crying, but his color seemed better. Joseph was singing something, along with the cantor, that Lincoln did not recognize. The cantor stopped when he saw Lincoln.
“Good, Joseph, very good,” he said to the boy. “Keep singing.”
He stood up and walked over to Lincoln. “The boy has a way to go, but I believe it is working. I have him reciting the Psalms.”
“How much longer?” Lincoln asked.
“I am not sure. But he is getting better.”
“Yes, but—Cantor, have you had a chance to look out the window?”
The cantor turned to the window; it was dark outside. “Shabbes is over. I must recite Havdalah.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant. Are you sure Joseph will be cured? According to legend, since he’s been bitten three times and sundown has now come—”
The cantor smiled. “Fear not, Mr. Kliman. Your son should be fine. I don’t think there is anything more you need to—”
A loud bang at the window startled the three of them, and Lincoln looked up. For a moment he thought he saw a bat, but then smoke swirled around it and into the room, blocking his vision.
“Oh God. Oh no oh no oh no…”
The smoke curled around the window, and coalesced into a pretty woman with long blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She wore a white V-neck sweater, cut low enough to display her cleavage, and a pair of tight blue jeans. She smelled of sweet perfume. She looked around the room, her red eyes peering out over a pair of dark sunglasses.
Lincoln shouted, “Go away! We haven’t invited you in!”
“Ah, but the boy has, and I have come for the boy,” said the vampire. She smiled, displaying two prominent canine teeth. “He is mine.”
“You can’t have him!” shouted Lincoln. He rushed at the vampire, who laughed and turned to smoke just as Lincoln got to where she had been standing. Lincoln lost his balance and almost fell out the window, but the cantor grabbed him.
The vampire re-formed at the bed. “Hello, Joseph.” She reached her hand out to Joseph’s head; Joseph recoiled, a look of horror upon his face.
“Keep her away!” Joseph shouted.
“Why, Joseph! Is that the way to treat your good friend Lily?” She cupped his chin and stared into his eyes. “Are you ready to come with me? To become one of us?”
The cantor walked over to the bed and spoke directly into the vampire’s ear. “You are too late,” he intoned. “The boy is lost to you. I have ensured it. Depart.”
The vampire laughed. “Do you think I have not dealt with these last minute conversions before? I look into the boy and I see the soul of an agnostic. He has no belief in the God of the Jews. I have encountered many of his type before, brought up unprotected from my magic. He is mine for the taking.”
“Why do you want him?” Lincoln asked. “Why can’t you leave him alone?”
She grinned at Lincoln, showing her long canine teeth. He shuddered. “Because he is so easy to take, so defenseless. As are so many of your sons.” She turned away, bent over the boy, and began to kiss him all over his face.
“Come, Joseph,” she crooned. “Forget this religious nonsense. Your dad didn’t let it stop him from marrying out of the faith; why should it stop you? Your friends are waiting for you, Joseph. It is time to join us.”
Lincoln felt a chill at the back of his neck, and he turned around to look back at the window. There were definitely figures out there, dark silhouettes hovering outside, waiting for Joseph to join them.
Entranced by his fear of what lay outside, he barely heard Joseph’s next words. “Yes, Lily, it is time to join our friends.” He began to lift himself out of the bed.
“No!” shouted the cantor. “Joseph, don’t listen to her! What about all you have gone through today?”
Joseph snarled. “You don’t understand! Lily and her friends have shown me so much of the world I never knew. We’ve gone out and had so much fun, every night! I want to live in her world!”
Lincoln broke out of his trance. “No!” he screamed, and rushed at the vampire. She changed into a bat this time, and Lincoln stopped short. The transformation was too frightening.
“Lincoln!” shouted the cantor. “Grab her!”
Lincoln broke out of his trance of fear and lunged at the bat, which flew away from him to the other side of the room.
“Now!” the cantor shouted, and jumped to Joseph’s side. “Joseph, you must sing. You must sing the ancient melodies that will protect you from this evil creature, or you will become like her. You must sing of your faith, your belief, in the Lord.
“Sing, Joseph. Sing with me.”
The cantor began to sing, in sepulchral tones. “Mizmor l’David. Repeat it, Joseph!”
“No, I—”
He grabbed Joseph by the shoulders and shook him. “Come to your senses! Her world offers you nothing but corruption! You shall lose everything that defines who you are, Joseph. Your background, your ancestors—you will never see your father again.”
“My father,” he said weakly. “I love my father.”
“Then sing! Mizmor l’David.”
Mizmor l’David,” Joseph sang, in a faint imitation of the cantor’s voice.
“Louder, Joseph! Listen to the tune. Hashem ro’i lo echsar. Bin’ot Desheh yarbitzaini al me minuchos yinahalayni.
Joseph repeated the song, more strongly this time.
The bat turned back into a woman. “No,” she whispered. “Stop!”
Lincoln blinked his eyes in surprise. As Joseph and the cantor sang, the room started to glow with a faint, yellow light. It was a soft, comforting glow, like that of the afternoon sun in a perfect blue sky.
“No,” said the vampire, much more weakly. “Stop, Joseph. If I ever meant anything to you, stop.” She crouched down and covered her eyes with her arm.
Noticing this, Lincoln realized that the light had distracted him. He turned his attention back to the song, and discovered with surprise that he now understood the Hebrew words. He knew what they meant, translating them instantly as they were sung.
Gam ki aylech b’gai tsalmavet lo eir’eh ra ki atah imadi,” Joseph sang.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me.
Shivt’cha umishantecha haymah y’nachamuni.
Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.
The glow became brighter, emanating from all around, but as they finished singing it started to gather around the forms of Joseph and the cantor. The light became so bright and hot that Lincoln followed the vampire’s lead and shielded his eyes.
Then Lincoln heard the song change. Without any prompting from the cantor, Joseph began singing another psalm. He listened carefully.
Omar ladoshem machsee umtsudati, elokai evtach bo, kee hu yahtseel’cha meepach yakoosh, midever havot.
I say of the Lord, my refuge and stronghold, my God in whom I trust, that He will save you from the fowler’s trap, from the destructive plague.
Lincoln opened his eyes and looked over his arm. Was the light starting to move towards the vampire?
Lo teera meepachad lailah…” You need not fear the terror by night…
The light began to coalesce around the vampire. She screamed. “Joseph! No!”
…meedever ba’ofel yahaloch.” The plague that stalks in the darkness.
The light surrounded her completely, so brightly that her form was completely covered. Her screams became softer, muffled.
Joseph stopped singing. “Begone,” the cantor and he said in unison.
Lincoln heard one more loud scream, and the light flared up, forcing him to cover his eyes again. When the light faded from beyond his arm, he looked up again, and noticed three things in succession. First, he saw Joseph, lying on his bed asleep, with all the normal color back in his face. Second, he saw the cantor holding up in front of him a silver Magen David, a Star of David.
Finally, he looked to where the vampire had last stood. All that was left of her was a pile of black dust, and a pair of sunglasses.
“Perhaps she was sent to test you, Mr. Kliman, perhaps not. I would not even guess.”
It was Monday afternoon, two days later, and Lincoln had stopped by the synagogue to thank the cantor once again.
“At any rate, Cantor, it was your music that saved my son. And your Star of David. I owe you my eternal gratitude.”
Cantor Gross shook his head slightly and smiled. “It was not merely my music, Mr. Kliman, but what my music represented, where it came from. As for the star of David, it has absolutely no religious significance at all. But I counted on the vampire not knowing that, and I was right. In short, I think your gratitude is well meant, but misplaced.”
“Yes. Well. Cantor, I need to get back home now. I want to check on Joseph.”
Lincoln turned to go, but the cantor gripped him by the arm. “Mr. Kliman, remember what we went through a few nights ago. What Joseph went through. Do not take his pseudo-conversion lightly and assume that he is now safe. The vampirism may still return.”
“What do you suggest?” Lincoln asked softly.
The cantor looked him directly in the eye. “Start bringing the boy to synagogue. If you are not comfortable with this place, then bring him to one easier for you to accept. But do bring him to one. Let him build up an understanding, an appreciation of his background, his culture, his religion.”
Lincoln pulled his arm away. “I’ll consider it,” he said, and to his surprise realized that he was speaking sincerely.
The cantor nodded. “It would be best for the boy to develop his own beliefs, his own defenses. Remember, Mr. Kliman, religion protects us from the many vampires of the world.”
Lincoln nodded and walked out. It was a cold day, and he sneezed when he got outside. He reached into his coat pocket and found the yarmulka that he had been told to wear when he first entered the synagogue. He had forgotten to return it.
He looked back at the synagogue for a moment, then returned the yarmulka to his pocket and walked home. Perhaps he would find use for it soon.

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