HebrewPunk E-Book

Lavie Tidhar

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 202

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

THE CLASSIC COLLECTION OF JEWISH FANTASY! "Marks a milestone in the literature of the fantastic." – Paul Di Filippo, author of The Steampunk Trilogy In HebrewPunk, World Fantasy Award winning author Lavie Tidhar had reinvented pulp fantasy fiction in Jewish terms, creating a hidden world where fantasy, horror and history intertwine. Featuring the Rabbi, the Rat and the Tzaddik, their stories take us on a journey from an expedition to an alternate world in Kenya in 1904 to the drug-soaked streets of 1920s London and to Transylvania in the Second World War. "Imagine Hard-Boiled Kabbalah... If you like your otherworld fun noir, have I got a book for you!" – Kage Baker, author of In the Garden of Iden "Wondrous, adventurous, and thought-provoking." – Ellen Datlow, co-editor of The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror "Tidhar writes a sort of intensified supernatural action-surrealism that fair rattles along and is full of surprises—not only plot twists and thrills but a level of conceptual surprise, a reinvigoration of some of the more tired conventions of the fantasy-horror genre... not to be missed." – Adam Roberts, author of The Thing Itself

Leseprobe

HebrewPunk

Copyright © 2007, 2016 by Lavie Tidhar

Published as an ebook in 2023 by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

Originally published in 2007 by Apex Publications

“The Heist” first published in The Horror Express, 2005

“Transylvanian Mission” first published in Dark Lurkers, 2004

“The Dope Fiend” first published in Sci Fiction, 2005

“Uganda” first published in HebrewPunk, 2007

“The Women of 1926” by James Laver © James Laver, published by arrangement with David Higham Associates

Cover art and design © 2023 by Paul McCaffrey

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-625676-11-5

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

49 W. 45th Street, 12th Floor

New York, NY 10036

awfulagent.com/ebooks

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Author’s Introduction

The Heist

Transylvanian Mission

The Dope Fiend

Uganda

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Lavie Tidhar

Author’s Introduction

I wrote HebrewPunk over a fairly long period of time, with the first story, “The Heist” probably dating as far back as 2003 or so, and the last, “Uganda,” written especially for the collection around 2006 or 2007. It began, rather simply, as a sort of tongue-in-cheek parody of pulp fiction tropes in “The Heist,” based around the premise that Jewish vampires would be immune to the traditional threats facing fictional ones—crosses and holy water being the most obvious. As soon as I wrote that first story, I had a light bulb moment, realising that each of the three characters introduced therein—the rabbi, the rat and the tzaddik—deserved their own stories, and that these stories, more seriously, should engage in some form with questioning the underlying assumptions of the traditional pulp milieus they were to operate in. I set down some other ground rules. Each story would be set in a different period of 20th century Jewish history. And each would consciously emulate a different form of pulp fiction—a WW2 adventure in “Transylvanian Mission”; a “dope fiend” story in “The Dope Fiend”; a lost world story in “Uganda” (“The Heist,” of course, is a heist caper). In a way, I realise now, the stories serve as an early model for the work I would later take on in novels such as The Violent Century (which borrows liberally for one section from “Transylvanian Mission”) and A Man Lies Dreaming. The historical element of those three stories was important to me. My own visit to Transylvania many years ago, where my family originates from, inspired the work on that story. For “The Dope Fiend,” I had first-hand knowledge of many of the locales, and as with the other stories, all the history is real. For “Uganda,” I had to travel to a private library in London where I could view the original report of the Zionist expedition to East Africa on microfilm, and the writing was inspired by my own travels in East and Central Africa. I would revisit it later, in more depth, in my novel Unholy Land.

Although originally published individually, I intended from the start for the stories to stand as a unified collection, and was fortunate that Jason Sizemore of Apex was supportive of my idea (as, indeed, he has been of many of my ridiculous plans). Since HebrewPunk’s original 2007 publication, the stories have also appeared in Hebrew, Polish, and Hungarian magazines, been adapted to audio, and the term ‘HebrewPunk’ (itself, naturally, very much tongue-in-cheek) made its way, improbably enough, into the Encyclopedia Judaica. In many ways, HebrewPunk stands as an early model for work I will continue to develop in different forms for years afterwards. I am delighted to issue this new edition of the collection, with new cover art by Paul McCaffrey, in the hope it remains available to any reader interested in such tales. I hope you enjoy the book!

The Heist

The most consciously pulp driven story in this collection, and the earliest, it first introduces the main characters in a sort of parody of both dark fantasy and heist capers. It was this story that acted—as often happens to me—as the “seed” for the collection, from which the other stories sprang.

BREACH

The bank stands alone at the city’s heart. Circular and tall, its face to the world is of unbroken, smooth steel, a façade that hides and protects its heart. Whatever windows there may be are hidden.

Along its vertical wall a shadow moves. Where no living creature could go it crawls, a piece of darkness and moonlight almost indistinguishable from its surroundings.

It moves along. Its body is encased in a darkness that is more than clothes; its hands cling to the wall by uncertain means. It climbs the tower like a spider, scuttling in a silence that is more than the absence of noise.

The tower’s immune system has not so far detected the intruder. If it had, hidden machines would open fire, for every five lead bullets two of silver, for every four bullets one tipped with gold. If it had, if the motion sensors and the heat sensors, the dust sensors and the X-ray sensors, radar and cameras and other, more arcane means, have not temporarily failed, the intruder would be captured and brought inside to the intimate womb of the tower, from which it would never return.

The intruder moves, uninterrupted, until it reaches the upper levels of the tower. Here there are hidden windows, a loose array of armoured, one way mirrors.

The intruder feels along the sides of one, running its hands along the perimeter of the small window. Any impact with the glass, any cut made to the layers of glass and wiring, will cause an immediate reaction. It jerks away its hand in seeming pain: there are tiny crucifixes cut into the glass, every five centimetres. The intruder scuttles up and down the side of the wall until it finds a window that it is apparently satisfied with. Feeling along the bottom of the windows, it detects the tiniest motion of air. There is a gap in the tower, a breach on a micronic scale.

In seconds, the intruder is gone. A cloud of vapour hangs in the air for a short while yet, the ghost of the dark mist that edges its way into the tower.

Inside, the cloud quickly reassembles. It reveals its shape first, then solidifies further, now that it is in the building. The intruder’s clothes are matte black, sealing the body inside it.

The intruder removes its headgear, revealing the face of a woman. She glides along the walls and down a corridor, looking around her cautiously. Her movements are precise.

There are no sounds. Her steps become more confident as she walks further into the heart of the tower.

Then, without warning, dark shapes slide out of the ceiling.

They look like bulbous plants at first, little metal balls that noiselessly grow a circle of tiny pipes around themselves, like the offshoots of a flower.

They sprinkle out water in a fine mist that gently descends to the floor. The intruder does not even notice until the water is nearly on her naked face.

Then she screams.

In the dim light of the corridor her face is a mask of writhing shadows. Where the water touches it, the skin blisters and frays.

Only the eyes remain for a while longer as the face around them is rapidly consumed, staring with an unnatural fear at the floating mist. Then they, too, are consumed in a bright flare and her whole head explodes, spraying the walls with brain and blood that are dry, and that form little mounds of mud on the floor. The intruder’s body slowly topples over.

In time it, too, is consumed by the mist.

INTERLUDE

Somewhere, a phone rings. A large, hairy hand picks up the receiver. A Chopin concerto is playing loudly in the background.

“Yes?” The speaker is sitting in an armchair, looking out of a large window on the city that sprawls underneath. It is early morning, and the sun is already burning.

“We failed.”

“So I gather.” There’s a newspaper spread on the man’s knees.

“Last night,” he says, his dry voice echoing down the line, “a burglar attempted to gain entry to the blood bank’s premises. The intruder was apprehended by bank security and killed while violently trying to resist arrest.” He pauses. “But we know what really happened, don’t we?”

The voice on the other side of the phone sounds tired. “They tell you at the bottom of the article,” he says. “I think. A friendly little warning from the authorities.”

The man’s finger traces the lines of text. “Incidentally, we have recently learned that the automated fire-prevention system recently installed at the blood bank carries water blessed by a high-ranking member of the clergy.” He can see the tall tower of the bank from his window, shining coolly in the bright sunlight.

“Holy water sprinklers?” His voice is even, but cannot totally disguise that the man is impressed.

“Another one bites the dust.”

“Quite.” The man sits quietly for a few moments as musical notes chase each other around the room. “Find me someone who can do it,” he says. “Anyone.”

He puts the phone down, gently.

CORPORATE POLITICS

“Yes, sir,” Jiminy says, even though the line is dead. Jiminy is balding, with unruly tufts of hair sticking out of his head like wildfire. His face is grey and lined. There are dark patches of sweat on his suit, under his armpits.

From his office window he can see the abandoned docks and the river. The dark water foams, churning out a familiar, almost welcome stench.

“The boss ain’t happy,” he says to the short man leaning against the wall. His tone is accusing. The man shrugs, a gesture of carelessness that infuriates Jiminy.

He grabs the short man and kicks him in the groin. The man falls to the ground. Jiminy’s hands shake. “Listen, you little shit,” he whispers. “If the boss ain’t happy then I ain’t happy.” He kicks the man in the ribs, hard. “And if I ain’t happy then you certainly ain’t happy.” He grabs the man’s hair and forces his head up, sharply. “Especially seeing as it was your burglar that just got vaporised.” He slaps the man hard with the back of his hand.

“I want results this time, sunshine,” he whispers. “Or it’s your time to start looking for some prime real estate at the bottom of the river, ‘cause that’s where you will be relocating to on a permanent basis real soon. Understand?”

He drops the short man to the floor and kicks him one last time. “Now get out and fix it.”

THE FIXER

“I know a man,” the short man says. “A macher.” His voice on the phone is hoarse.

Jiminy is chewing on a short cigar. He is still at his office. “A macher?”

“A fixer.” The short man takes a deep breath. “Name of Cahana. Ezra Cahana. Known as The Rabbi.”

“A Jew,” Jiminy says. His hand is drumming a rapid beat on the oak desk.

The short man hesitates. “We’ve exhausted all other avenues,” he says.

In the dark room Jiminy nods.

He thinks briefly, then speaks into the phone. “Where do I find him?”

It turns out the Rabbi doesn’t travel. You want him, you come to him. Jiminy curses as he drives through the narrow streets of downtown, searching for the address. He pulls over outside a small house. The street lamps are unlit and the windows of the house are dim. Rats hurry through a mound of rubbish outside. In the light of the moon their fur looks blood-encrusted and dirty.

He pats his coat, reassuring himself of the gun’s presence. He knocks on the door.

THE CAST

The Rabbi knows a few people. He opens a thick folder of brown paper and leafs through it. There’s Yanek ‘the Gondolier’ Kozlovsky, a contract killer with a speciality in vampires who likes drowning his victims in vats of holy water. There’s Motti the Shark, a rogue Kabbalist with a line in curses. There’s Jimmy the Prophet, whose powers of divination allow him to burgle empty houses with an unnatural ease.

He knows a few people. He pulls three sheets from the folder and lays them on the table in front of Jiminy.

“Jimmy the Rat.” His finger taps a staccato on the page. “Age unknown, though at least a hundred. A vampire, and, almost uniquely, a Jew.” The Rabbi sighs, but it is not clear whether it is the idea of a Jewish vampire or its uniqueness that saddens him more. He continues. “Shape-shifting abilities—the moniker is not for nought—immunity from crosses, holy water and silver, although he is fatally affected by gold. A loner, naturally. Served with the partisans in Eastern Europe during the Holocaust, an expert with explosives, several posthumous medals for bravery.”

He shifts his finger to the second sheet. “Frankie Bloomenthal, AKA The Tzaddik. Frankie is a Wandering Jew, and the rumour is he was once one of the Lamed Vav—the Thirty-Six Tzaddiks who preserve the order of the world. An unfortunate taste for expensive drugs and loose women. Immortal—naturally—he can be hurt but not stopped.”

The Rabbi’s finger shifts to the third sheet. “Lastly, one of my close associates. Strong—much more so than a human—obedient, extremely loyal and very quiet on his feet.” He stares at a point directly behind Jiminy and smiles. “Very quiet.”

When Jiminy turns round he has to control his hand, prevent it from reaching for the gun. There is a huge thing blocking the door, a man-shaped figure made of a dark, fluid material. It exudes menace like a pungent cologne.

“Goldie.” The Rabbi says proudly.

“What is that thing?” Jiminy says. He takes a step back.

“A golem.” The Rabbi Says. His smile is unpleasant. “Certain Rabbis, you see, can mould a human figure from clay and animate it.”

His tone of voice makes it clear to which category of Rabbi he belongs. “It’s done by writing down the true name of God and putting the paper under the golem’s tongue.”

Jiminy isn’t going to argue with that, not with the golem standing right beside him.

The Rabbi continues. “Goldie is an improvement in several ways on a traditional golem, however,” he says, “most importantly in his physical attributes. Instead of the traditional clay I’ve used a special mixture of clay, industrial diamonds and steel that can absorb double the impact of a standard golem, and produce three times the punch. In addition, the usually flat mouth has been enhanced with a special set of teeth. Smile, Goldie.”

The giant golem opens its mouth. Sharp, artificial dentures shine in the dim light.

“Alternating gold, silver, and titanium alloy,” the Rabbi says. “Can take on anyone. In addition,” he continues, “certain modifications to the writing that animates Goldie have been made that provide him with a modicum of free will.” The Rabbi shrugs. “A necessary requirement if one was to assist successfully in an unpredictable operation. Such as,” he says evenly, “the operation you have in mind.”

Jiminy has heard enough. “You’d better not fail,” he says.

Money changes hands.

Jiminy has to push past the golem on his way out. He takes a deep breath in the steamy air outside and hurries to his car.

RECRUITMENT

The Rabbi finds the Tzaddik at his favourite place, a nearly-empty bar whose dark interior is illuminated only by the dim light of the neon signs outside. The Tzaddik is sitting in the corner, a glass and bottle of wine on the table beside him.

The Rabbi sits down and places a second glass on the table. He murmurs a short prayer over the wine then pours himself a generous helping.

“Got a job for you,” he says. The Tzaddik doesn’t seem to hear him.

“The big job, Frankie—” the Rabbi’s voice is excited “—this is it. The retirement fund, the bailout money, the big payout. Even for you.”

The Tzaddik grips his wine glass. His fingers are long and pale, and hairless. Pigmentation spots are strewn across them haphazardly. He smiles crookedly at the Rabbi. “There is always one last job, Rabbi. Always one more.” He empties his glass and stands up.

“And there will always be a Tzaddik to do them,” the Rabbi says. He tops up his glass. “Meet me at the warehouse tomorrow. Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”

He drinks wine and watches the retreating back of the Tzaddik.

* * *

Jimmy the Rat hangs out at the Glass Tit, as bright as the Tzaddik’s bar is dark. The night club is neon lit, smoky and loud, with a uniform bass beat that sends shock waves through the entire structure.

The Rabbi finds Jimmy in the VIP lounge upstairs. He is smoking a cigarette, watching the people on the dance floor below. A brief nod acknowledges the Rabbi.

“What have you got?” he says. He waves his hand and the room empties of people, fast. The Rabbi sits down.

“I have need of your talents,” he says. It’s almost a tradition.

“Something big?”

“The blood bank.” The Rabbi notices the fleeting reaction of the vampire and knows the bait was taken.

“Impossible.”

“No,” the Rabbi says. He smiles at the tall vampire. “Just very, very dangerous.”

The vampire lights up another cigarette. “How much?” he says finally.

“As much as you can carry.”

The Rabbi stands up. “Meet me at the warehouse tomorrow, eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”

His steps follow the beat as he walks out.

BLUEPRINTS

A dirty moon casts a pale reflection in the river. The warehouse is a low building squatting on a deserted quay. It casts a low reflection in the water.

Naked neon bulbs illuminate the warehouse from within. The Rabbi and his accomplices are standing around a high table.

“Holy water sprinklers?” The Rat is impressed.

“Inconsequential.” The Tzaddik is pacing around the room, hands clasped behind his back. “We won’t be getting in that way again.” He points to the sketch on the table. “The doors are here, here and here. Can they be opened?”

The Rabbi shakes his head. “They’re never used, and as far as we know they are purely for show. Ceremonial purpose, if you prefer.”

“How does stuff go in and out then?” says Jimmy.

“Exactly,” the Rabbi says. He pulls out a different map and lays it gently on the table. “This is an estimate scan of the underground area around the bank. As you can see, there are apparent waste chutes here and here—” he taps the paper “—tunnels here, and possible entry holes here.” He pulls out a third map and points to two back alleys some distance from the bank.

“So we get in through the tunnels,” says Jimmy the Rat. His cigarette sends curls of grey smoke blowing against the naked bulbs.

“Not exactly,” the Rabbi says. “But I want you to check them if you can.”

The Rat smiles, fangs shining. “No problem.” He stalks out, and at a nod from the Rabbi the Tzaddik follows.

TUNNELS

Jimmy the Rat shape-shifts in the dark alley. Expensive clothes are left in a clatter on the pavement as a long-snout rodent disappears into a crack in the stonework. It moves quickly through the stench of standing water, through a maze of rusting pipes and muddy concrete.

The Tzaddik is standing, wrapped in shadow, in a corner overlooking the bank. The bank’s doors are shut. And no light shows through its steel façade.

There is a group of protesters huddled together in the square, holding placards. Free Trade Equals Free Blood, says one. Vampires Are People Too, says another. The Tzaddik silently watches.

Down the pipes the rat runs. Deeper and deeper into the ground, and cautiously edging its way towards the centre. It can smell trouble.

It stops and sniffs the air. Engine oil and wax. It feels small vibrations in the pipe, hears a rhythm of motion coming closer, feels tiny puffs of warm air on its fur.

It moves further down the pipe and emerges into a large, artificially lit tunnel. Unlike the pipes, this tunnel smells clean and efficient, and is hot.

The rat’s tail twitches as his head moves rapidly from side to side.

Stop Unfair Trade! screams a sign. Feed The Hungry. The protesters huddle closer as if the silence of the bank were physically hurting them.

The Tzaddik notices this with interest.

The Rat’s small mind is confused. Long-buried memories surface uneasily, of other tunnels, dug in the frozen earth, and of the smells of dead people and human refuse intermingled. Sensing something is wrong, it jumps frantically on a loose pipeline and runs away as fast as its feet can take it.

Behind it, the sound of engines grows louder.

BLUEPRINTS II

“Ultrasonic whistles.” The Tzaddik is warming his hands by a large fire. Goldie stands motionless by the door.

“That’s what it was?” The Rat is flushed, his skin glistening in the naked light. “Felt it down in the tunnels.” He looks over the scattered maps and traces a pattern with his finger. His nails are bitten. “This is roughly the security perimeter. From what I saw there is at least one tunnel large enough to provide transportation, probably several.” He draws a vertical line in the air. “I think there’s a large shaft here, right under the tower.”

“So all the transportation, all personnel going in and out of the bank, do so by means of an underground facility.” The Rabbi paces the room, hands locked behind his back. “Good, good.”

“Good?” The Rat’s fist hits the table, sending papers falling to the floor. “How do you propose we get inside? Turn to rats and slide down the fucking toilet pipes?” He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his shirt and shakes one out. The Tzaddik is quietly collecting the fallen papers and laying them neatly on the table. “It can’t be done.”

The Rabbi smiles. “Have faith, Jimmy. A man must have faith.” He turns to the Tzaddik. “Isn’t that right Frankie?”

The Tzaddik’s solemn nod doesn’t quite hide a sudden smile. “Amen, Rabbi,” he says. “Amen.”

INTERLUDE II

Somewhere, a phone rings. A large, hairy hand picks up the receiver. A Chopin concerto is playing loudly in the background.

“Yes?” The man is watching the sun setting over the city, painting the skyline in hues of burgundy and crimson as if the fading light were slowly congealing blood.

“They’ve put the plan into motion.”

The man watches an aeroplane flying sedately across the skies, twin jet plumes dispersing in the distance. “Good.”

The plane disappears from his field of vision. In the dying skies the smoke remains.

“Jiminy?”

“Yes?” The voice on the other side of the line is strained.

“I hope they don’t fuck up.”

IMPLEMENTATION

The queues are long and orderly.

In the semi-darkness of dusk the town hall looks obscene, a gothic offence squatting like a bulging toad in a pool of murky light. Security personnel walk up and down the files of people. The guns they hold are unremarkable, meant for efficiency rather than show, the light from street lamps glancing off dull bullet-proof vests.

The queues move slowly, men and women shuffling up the stone stairs and through the great doors. A vast man-like statue stands unobtrusively to one side.

“Next!” A man in a bland, white uniform paces the entrance, clutching a large clipboard. His small moustache is neat. He helps an old woman climb the last step and walks her into the hall, holding her by the arm.

The queues move sluggishly in and out of the building’s mouth. On the far side of the plaza, a rat turns into a man in a pool of darkness.

“Did you find it?” The Rabbi is sitting on a wooden bench, his legs stretched.

“Yeah.” The Rat is putting on clothes rapidly. “The pipes expand quickly past the back of the hall.” He finishes a last button on his shirt, digs in the pocket for a packet of cigarettes. “I think we found your entrance point.”

“Good.”

The Rat sits down on the bench and draws on his cigarette, cupping the small flame in his hand.

“Now we wait.”

* * *

On the stone steps the man with the clipboard looks tired. A deep darkness has fallen, and the plaza in front of the town hall is nearly deserted. He helps an old man—the last in the queue—with the remaining few steps, steadies him as the man seems to overbalance. They walk into the hall together.