Abram stared up at the city around him. It seemed impossible, like the ladder Yakov saw in his dreams, or the celestial visions of Ezekiel. But there were no angels here, no more than he had seen in Russia, where the Cossacks descended down onto shetls and ripped families apart. He had fled the ashes of one such village, the smoke of a fire fueled by Torah and Talmud rising behind him, the smell of blood and vomit in his nostrils, nightmares seared into his eyes.
He had walked three days in a daze, then he had recovered some fragments of his wits. He found one of the miserable cities of the Russian Empire. Perhaps it had been Petrograd, perhaps it had been Odessa, perhaps it had been Murmansk. It didn't matter. They were all vile, rotten places where people were ground up by the merciless industry and blood ran in the streets as thick as the Devil's spittle. He had begged and stolen for money, and taken a ship away from that empire, and then he had ended up in a place half as wretched, and thus still hell on Earth.
New York City trumpeted what it wanted to be. It proclaimed that it welcomed everyone, that it was a land of democracy and justice. And yet still its factories chewed people up and spit them out, its thugs still committed murder and arson. And it stank even worse.
He wandered the streets, once more in a daze, once more soaked by the blood of innocents. He couldn't even remember what happened this time, he had woken up and there had been a man and then there had been fire and screaming. And now he wandered like a ghost, like the souls of those taken by Cossacks on their wedding day.
He wandered, and he did not see where he went.
Hours stretched by, dawn came and went, and at last the limits of the body overcame the cracks in Abram's mind. He had not been sleeping, and barely been eating, and there was nothing that could keep him on his feet, not if Elijah came down from heaven and blew his shofar.
He found the first open door and stumbled into it, too exhausted to flee from the imposing cross that dominated the small space, the face of the figure nailed to it twisted in grotesque agony. Abram collapsed onto a pew and knew nothing.
Some time later, hours at least, perhaps longer, he awoke. It was dark in the space, the shadows of evening stretching out in the tiny room, and he was no longer alone. Abram startled, fear giving him sudden strength. It was a very foolish Jew who allowed himself to be caught in a place like this. And soon a very foolish Jew became a very dead Jew.
But the man, a priest or rector or deacon or some manner of official, Abram had never learned their titles and hierarchies, made no threatening move. He did not brandish a knife, or call up a mob. He sat down in the pew Abram had just vacated and winced slightly. "If you had slept on one of these, friend, you must be weary indeed. There are softer beds upstairs, and a kitchen. By your looks, I am guessing you favor kosher meals. I will not make you something with meat then, I am afraid I can't guarantee the beef we have is slaughtered properly."
Skittishly, like a dog who has been kicked many times who is now being offered scraps from the table, Abram assented to the offer, trailing behind the men as they went behind the altar and up a narrow staircase into another room. There were eight narrow beds and sixteen sets of roughly folded clothing lining one wall, while the other was lined with rusting metal furnishings. The man efficiently made Abram a sandwich, and he devoured it and silently wished for more.
"I did not know Christians here were so familiar with the ways of Jews," Abram said carefully.
"I do not think most are, but Father Patrick, who runs this church and orphanage, met one the other month. He and a few dozen others are creating a group of sorts. Apparently, Christ was born a Jew, and mayhaps the Apostles too. So clearly there has to be worth among them, otherwise, mankind would not have their savior plucked from such a people. Anyhow, this church and others and some of your temples are writing letters to each other and comparing holy books, and I believe there's money being raised to help a church that caught on fire, and to protect people who are being persecuted for their faith..."
He cast about the room and seized a small stack of pamphlets. "Father Patrick said I should hand these out to people who are interested."
Images flashed behind Abram's eyes. "There are Jews in Russia who are persecuted for their faith, so many Jews."
He began to describe the Cossacks, the things they would do to Jewish wedding parties and how they would (warning, gore) slit open the bellies of pregnant women and throw wild animals inside. The tales of atrocities witnessed poured out as Abram spoke, like a great flood. He could stop it, no more than Jonah could halt the destruction of Nineveh. He spoke and spoke until his throat was dry.
The man paused. "That sounds...unpleasant. This is a lot to ask, but I am not a man with any power. When Father Patrick comes around, he'll take you to the leaders of the society and you can convince them to help the Jews of Russia."
After another sandwich and some lighter conversation, Father Patrick arrived, leading a pack of orphan boys who fell upon the rest of the food ravenously while Father Patrick and Abram spoke briefly, then Father Patrick gave him a place and a time.
They parted, promising to see each other, and Abram stared up at the impossibly tall buildings of New York City, once more seeing them as the ladders Yakov saw in his dream.
And indeed, perhaps there were angels here, climbing and descending.
