The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) by C.A. Sanders Page A
Authors: C.A. Sanders
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Subterranean . The locals looked ready to find bolt holes at any moment. Then again, in this part of the city, it’s always good to know an escape route.
The lock on the building’s front door was broken, so I let myself in. I walked up the black stairs and knocked on the first door.
“Rabbi Levitt? It’s Nathaniel Hood.”
“Hood? You want the Rebbi ?” Came a thick voice from beyond the door. “ Moishe!! Someone here for the Rebbi ! Some goy named Hood! I don’t know, just bring the Rebbi! ” There was some shuffling behind the door, and then Rabbi Levitt filled the open doorway.
“ Herr Watchmage! So good to see you. Please come in.”
He closed the door behind me. It was a small room, but quaint. The furniture looked as if they crafted it from wooden crates, straw, and cloth. The table was plain, but a bowl of fruit sat in the middle. The walls were lined with shelves and stuffed with books. A desk sat in the corner, stacked with open books and papers. I smelled fried garlic and onion coming from a room beyond.
“I have some tea brewing. Would you like some?” He brushed off a chair by the table and gestured for me to sit. “Ruchel, is the tea ready?”
“Yes, Zaydee ,” came a girl’s voice from the other room.
He bustled out of the room before I could answer, and soon returned with two cups of tea. “Forgive me, Herr Watchmage, but I have no milk or sugar. There’s a lemon in the bowl, and you can have some, if you like. Or I can go to the grocer and buy sugar. Would you like that?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure? It’s no bother at all.”
“No, thank you.”
The door opened behind me and a man of middling years entered. “Good evening, Rebbe ,” he said.
“Evening, Hershel.”
Hershel took an apple from the bowl, tipped his hat to me, and left for one of the further rooms.
“Yes, well.” Levitt raised one finger. “I have a new joke. I know you love them.”
I stifled a groan and rested my cheek on my palm. “Go on.”
He smiled and rubbed his meaty hands together. “Wonderful! May I? Good.” His smile turned wicked. “What did the parents give the rabbi after the bris ?”
“What’s a bris?”
“The…um…how do you say…circumcision.”
“Oh…I don’t know.”
“A tip!” Levitt burst into roaring laughter. “You can laugh, Herr Watchmage. It’s good for the spirit.”
I forced a smile.
“Wait, I heard a good one from a pickle monger the other day.”
“Please don’t…”
“Mister Klein worked in a pickle factory for ten years. One day he says to his wife, ‘Rebecca, for ten years I’ve wanted to stick my finger in the pickle slicer, and today I finally did it.’
“She said, ‘Well? What happened?’
“‘I got sacked.’
“‘Oy vey! What happened to the pickle slicer?”
“‘She got sacked too.’”
I stood dumbfounded as he grinned in his tea. “Aren’t you a man of God?” I asked. “You can’t say that.”
“My dear friend, I was born in Dvinsk, in Russia, many years ago. My mother and two brothers die in a pogrom . They burn half the shtetel down. My father moves us to Hamburg. I live, I laugh, I marry. I have three sons, and they do me proud. My wife dies. The revolution comes. My children fight. I fight. We all fight. They kill my boys, my beautiful boys, and I’m left to bury them. I take my grandchildren and move to America, streets paved with gold. Now I live with ten other people and ten thousand cockroaches. We have little food, and the people hate us. If you don’t learn to laugh, you’ll kill yourself.”
“Wise words, I suppose.”
He wiped some dribbles of tea from his bushy beard. “You look like a man that needs to laugh more, Herr Watchmage.” His merry eyes turned serious. “So what brings you to my hovel? Is this about the rich lady’s schmatte? ”
“The baby?”
“Baby? What baby? I mean
The lock on the building’s front door was broken, so I let myself in. I walked up the black stairs and knocked on the first door.
“Rabbi Levitt? It’s Nathaniel Hood.”
“Hood? You want the Rebbi ?” Came a thick voice from beyond the door. “ Moishe!! Someone here for the Rebbi ! Some goy named Hood! I don’t know, just bring the Rebbi! ” There was some shuffling behind the door, and then Rabbi Levitt filled the open doorway.
“ Herr Watchmage! So good to see you. Please come in.”
He closed the door behind me. It was a small room, but quaint. The furniture looked as if they crafted it from wooden crates, straw, and cloth. The table was plain, but a bowl of fruit sat in the middle. The walls were lined with shelves and stuffed with books. A desk sat in the corner, stacked with open books and papers. I smelled fried garlic and onion coming from a room beyond.
“I have some tea brewing. Would you like some?” He brushed off a chair by the table and gestured for me to sit. “Ruchel, is the tea ready?”
“Yes, Zaydee ,” came a girl’s voice from the other room.
He bustled out of the room before I could answer, and soon returned with two cups of tea. “Forgive me, Herr Watchmage, but I have no milk or sugar. There’s a lemon in the bowl, and you can have some, if you like. Or I can go to the grocer and buy sugar. Would you like that?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure? It’s no bother at all.”
“No, thank you.”
The door opened behind me and a man of middling years entered. “Good evening, Rebbe ,” he said.
“Evening, Hershel.”
Hershel took an apple from the bowl, tipped his hat to me, and left for one of the further rooms.
“Yes, well.” Levitt raised one finger. “I have a new joke. I know you love them.”
I stifled a groan and rested my cheek on my palm. “Go on.”
He smiled and rubbed his meaty hands together. “Wonderful! May I? Good.” His smile turned wicked. “What did the parents give the rabbi after the bris ?”
“What’s a bris?”
“The…um…how do you say…circumcision.”
“Oh…I don’t know.”
“A tip!” Levitt burst into roaring laughter. “You can laugh, Herr Watchmage. It’s good for the spirit.”
I forced a smile.
“Wait, I heard a good one from a pickle monger the other day.”
“Please don’t…”
“Mister Klein worked in a pickle factory for ten years. One day he says to his wife, ‘Rebecca, for ten years I’ve wanted to stick my finger in the pickle slicer, and today I finally did it.’
“She said, ‘Well? What happened?’
“‘I got sacked.’
“‘Oy vey! What happened to the pickle slicer?”
“‘She got sacked too.’”
I stood dumbfounded as he grinned in his tea. “Aren’t you a man of God?” I asked. “You can’t say that.”
“My dear friend, I was born in Dvinsk, in Russia, many years ago. My mother and two brothers die in a pogrom . They burn half the shtetel down. My father moves us to Hamburg. I live, I laugh, I marry. I have three sons, and they do me proud. My wife dies. The revolution comes. My children fight. I fight. We all fight. They kill my boys, my beautiful boys, and I’m left to bury them. I take my grandchildren and move to America, streets paved with gold. Now I live with ten other people and ten thousand cockroaches. We have little food, and the people hate us. If you don’t learn to laugh, you’ll kill yourself.”
“Wise words, I suppose.”
He wiped some dribbles of tea from his bushy beard. “You look like a man that needs to laugh more, Herr Watchmage.” His merry eyes turned serious. “So what brings you to my hovel? Is this about the rich lady’s schmatte? ”
“The baby?”
“Baby? What baby? I mean
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