Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale Read online

  Joshua

  A Brooklyn Tale

  Andrew Kane

  Joshua

  A Brooklyn Tale

  Copyright © 2011 Andrew Kane.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  ISBN: 978-1-4582-0074-7 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4582-0073-0 (e)

  ISBN: 978-1-4582-0075-4 (hc)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011917247

  Printed in the United States of America

  Abbott Press rev. date: 12/02/2011

  Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK I

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  BOOK II

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  BOOK III

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  BOOK IV

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  BOOK V

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  EPILOGUE

  POSTSCRIPT

  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 fashion… walks us through his characters’ journeys with insight, sensitivity, and fine attention to detail that are rare.” Hadassah 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 Shore 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

  ALSO BY ANDREW KANE

  Rabbi, Rabbi

  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 assistant 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 Assessment 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 t
he Jews!

  No Justice, no peace!

  The chanting, the clamor of bottles smashing, 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 shivering. 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 muffled as stillness descended upon the room. Crouching, he turned back to the chair.

  Suddenly, an earsplitting sound—glass shattering, a brick crashing 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 glass around them, and had no answer. Two long days trapped, a Kristalnacht in the middle of Brooklyn in 1991, and no assistance from an entire city that had abandoned them.

  A moment passed. Another crash. More shattering glass as a large stone flew across the room, smashing 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 shiver, doubting his own assurances 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 God.

  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 bums 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 dinky 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 classes. 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 glass 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.

  President Street had both apartment buildings and private homes. The private homes were attached, two-story red-bricks with driveways and above-ground basements. A few blocks down, past the intersection of Troy Avenue, there were brownstone and limestone row houses interweaving among the apartment buildings, and even further down, past Kingston Avenue, were the large private homes that the locals called “mansions.”

  Joshua and his mother were privileged to live in this place—at least that’s what his mother thought. Loretta Eubanks often reminded Joshua that they were one of two black families in the entire building, and one of thirty within a five-block radius. “Don’t you go messing up our lives here,” she repeatedly warned him, “I worked real hard to get us here, and you best not forget it!”

  She was referring to her job as a housekeeper for a wealthy, Jewish family out in Long Island. She had worked for them eleven years, the first two as a live-in. But as soon as Joshua had arrived on the scene, the lady of the house, Mrs. Sims, told Loretta that she would have to find her own place.

  Joshua never believed that his mother was actually angry with him, no matter how harsh her words. He understood that her true antagonism was toward Mrs. Sims, her employer, to whom she could never express such a sentiment. And she was also angry with herself. As he was growing up, Joshua often wondered why Loretta seemed to loathe herself, her life, her position, perhaps even her color.

  She was also disgusted with the way men frequently reacted when they saw her on the street. In the old neighborhood, the black men would constantly whistle and jest, while in Crown Heights the white men silently gawked.

  She was a tall woman, about five-feet eight, slender but nicely endowed. Her ebony hair was long and wavy, her skin dark chocolate, and her face bore North African features, a sharp nose and full lips. Her voice was raspy, and she spoke with a deep black-southern inflection. And while Joshua may have portrayed her as harsh from time to time, the one thing he never doubted was her love.

  They moved into their new home in 1959. Loretta was twenty-eight years old. The other black family consisted of Mr. Williams, the building superintendant, his wife Mary, and their two children, Jerome and Celeste. Luckily for Joshua, Jerome was his age. Celeste was a year younger.

  The other tenants were mostly lower middle-class Jews and Italians. The wealthier Jews in the neighborhood lived in the mansions on President Street, between Kingston and New York Avenues. They were large, red-brick palaces set back from the street, each standing on slightly less than a quarter of an acre. The only thing these homes had in common was that they all had lawns and gardens; otherwise, no two were alike. One was three stories, while its neighbor was five. One had old-fashioned, white, plantation pillars in front, another an open terrace. One had a flat roof, another an arched roof.

  A few blocks west of the mansions was the Irish section, in the heart of which stood the Church of St. Ignatius Loyola and Brooklyn Preparatory School. What most of the Irish didn’t know was that their church and school were located on the plot of land upon which the Kings County Penitentiary had once stood. The prison had been built in 1846, and torn down almost a century later because of the growing community around it.

  The Irish lived predominantly among their own. Their confines were the brownstones of Carroll and Crown Streets between Bedford and Nostrand Avenues. But the Irish kids often journeyed to Joshua’s side of the neighborhood to hang out in the park, play handball against the Italians, and pick fights with the Jews.

  Loretta frequently praised Mr. Alfre
d Sims, her Jewish employer and illustrious landlord of their new premises, for his generosity in providing this home rent-free. Joshua never wondered about that, for in his nine-year-old mind, it seemed that this was the way things were supposed to be. As for the other tenants, there may have been suspicions about Loretta’s rent-free status, but nothing ever surfaced.

  Surprisingly, their immediate neighbors, the Eisenmans, were quite gracious. They were an elderly Jewish couple, and Mrs. Eisenman would check on Joshua regularly whenever Loretta was running late from work. The old lady even told Joshua once how lucky she thought Mr. and Mrs. Sims were to have someone as hardworking as his mother. “Giving you poor people this apartment is the least those rich suburbanites can do,” she added. It would be years before he realized this wasn’t exactly a compliment.

  Joshua had never met Mr. and Mrs. Sims, nor their only child, Paul. He was, however, resentful of the fact that Paul was the one his mother took care of while he was left wandering the streets. Of course, that wasn’t Loretta’s intention. She needed to earn a living, and had always made arrangements for Joshua to be looked after. Even when he was an infant, Loretta had enough unemployed friends to do for Joshua what she was doing for Paul. But as soon as Joshua began to understand anything, he realized he was getting the short end.

  Joshua was one year younger than Paul. He believed his mother really loved “that white boy,” as he often put it. Loretta didn’t mean to make comparisons, but sometimes she just couldn’t help herself. It was no secret that she wished Joshua had been more like Paul, occasionally saying things like, “Paul is such a wonderful student; he gets A’s in all his subjects.”

  She somehow imagined that Joshua was interested in her endless accounts about the life of Paul Sims, and that he was grateful for all of Paul’s hand-me-down clothing she brought home over the years. A roof over his head in a choice location, his own bedroom, clothes on his back: he had much to be thankful for. At least that’s what Loretta thought.