The Jewish War by Tova Reich

Author:Tova Reich [Reich, Tova]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-82773-9
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2012-09-05T00:00:00+00:00

Upon her door, Chuck Buck reported to Yehudi when he returned to the tent from his visit to the Rebbetzin Sora Freud, was a small placard written in English: Here lives a Jew, not a Zionist. Those were the exact words, the evangelist attested, for he had an opportunity to read them over and over again until they were carved into his memory, since his own sister—would you believe?—for a long time, his own sister kept him standing out there on a kind of broken-down, second-story terrace and would not let him in. “So I knock at the door, Brother Jew-dee, and I hear her voice—it was Pammy’s voice, all right, I’d have recognized it anywhere, she sounds just like Mama, God rest her soul—but she’s speaking some strange language, and I’m thinking, Jesus be praised, Pammy’s talking in tongues.”

“That was Yiddish, Chuck,” Yehudi said.

“Well, who’s to say? You didn’t hear it. I did. It could have been tongues, considering her chromosomes. No way she can escape her roots, if you understand my meaning. The Lord works in mysterious ways. So, like I was saying, I knock real hard on that door and I hear my kid sister Pammy speaking in tongues or whatever, and I figure like this—whatever else she’s saying, she’s also saying, ‘Who’s there?’ So I clear my throat, and in my best voice—and you know, Brother Jew-dee, if I do say so myself, the Lord has blessed me with a powerful voice, I couldn’t even count how many people have come up to me and said, ‘Chuck,’ they’ve said, ‘Chuck, you could have gone into the theater or show business with that voice of yours,’ but the Lord in His wisdom has called me to His ministry instead, praise the Lord. So, fine-tuning my most prayerful voice with which I have netted thousands of souls for Jesus, I say, ‘Pammy, honey, it’s me, Chuck, it’s your brother Chuckie.’ And then, what do you think I hear, Brother Jew-dee? Nothing—I don’t hear a thing—for God’s own eternity, nothing. And there I am standing outside her door—Lord, it reminded me of when she used to lock herself in the bathroom as a girl doing only the devil knows what, and me banging on the door like to beat the band to deliver her soul from Satan. History sure does repeat itself, like the wise man said. So there I am pounding on her door again, just like in the good old days, saying Pammy sugar, Pammy baby, Pammy honey, Pammy cupcake, Pammy pumpkin, and down below in the courtyard strung end-to-end with clotheslines flapping with the strangest underwear you ever did encounter on God’s good earth, they’re coming out of all the little doorways, big, solid ladies in brown wigs wiping their hands front and back on their aprons, and young gals with long braids and heavy stockings, and boys with fancy sidelocks like cocker spaniels and big black velvet beanies on top of their shaved heads, and

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