Kaddish
Chapter 1
by
Rocky-Cat
Disclaimer: Logan, Professor X, the Beast, and any other X-men are Marvel characters and they retain all rights. I am simply borrowing them for a while. I do not stand to make any money from this story. All non-Marvel characters are my own creation.
Archive: At will, with proper attribution.
Author's note: I began this story while dealing with a painful personal loss. Within days of finishing I experienced another family loss. This is dedicated to someone whose presence will never have the chance to grace our world and another whose presence was a blessing to all who knew him. Perhaps the circle is complete.
A short glossary of terms found in this piece of fiction can be found at the end of the chapter.
Wolverine scanned the street around him and took in the unfamiliar sights. Even after all these years it never failed to amaze him how different one part of the city could be from another. Different neighborhoods were almost like small independent countries thrown together randomly, sharing uneasy borders and varying levels of trade relations. From the Russian spoken in the streets of Brighton Beach, to the Korean in Flushing, the Haitian in Flatbush, the Polish in Greenpoint, the Italian on Arthur Avenue, and more, you could travel around the world just by changing subway lines.
Despite living just north of New York City, the X-men rarely ventured into any part of it other than Manhattan. For whatever reason, Magneto, Sinister, and their ilk tended to show very little interest in Queens or Staten Island. And although Gambit was recognized at every "in" club and downtown restaurant-of-the-moment and Hank knew his way around all the research laboratories of the city's universities and hospitals, it was unlikely that any of the team could find an address in the Bronx without a good map.
Today, however, Wolverine was on one of his more quixotic missions in recent memory. For some reason, unknown even to him, he'd finally gotten sick and tired of McCoy's not-so-secret hidden Twinkie addiction and was determined to break him of the nasty habit. He thought that maybe cannolis, with their similar shape and satisfying sweetness and more sophisticated taste, would help to raise the level of the oblivious scientist's palate. That, and eliminate the wadded up cellophane wrappers that kept turning up all over the place. Hank may keep his lab as spotless as a clean room but outside of the lab was another story entirely.
Logan had gotten a line on an incredible Italian pastry shop on 13th Avenue in Brooklyn, just where the old Italian and Jewish neighborhoods began to overlap. His plan was to pick up a dozen cannolis, replace Hank's Twinkies with them, and see what happened. Cram them down that furry blue throat, if necessary.
He chose to cut across a mostly residential side street, primarily to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He'd entered the neighborhood through the Jewish area and took in the bustling street sights and sounds of a different culture. A hundred different smells assailed him from all corners. The aromas of sweet and savory bakery goods mixed with the scent of ripe fruit from greengrocers' stands, raw meat - oddly bloodless - from the butchers' shops, leather bindings from booksellers' stores, and the usual smells of the city - unwashed humanity and unwashed city streets. He realized instinctively that he stuck out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood. The men he saw were all bearded and wore black hats. Many had long sidelocks pushed behind their ears. Their clothing was somber and even in the sweltering summer heat they all wore long pants and suit jackets. Every woman he came across seemed to be pushing a stroller and was being followed by a procession of at least three or four young children. The women, too, were dressed conservatively in long-sleeved dresses, opaque stockings, and head coverings. Signs in the shop windows were frequently in two languages and those he understood often advertised items he'd never heard of. His casual garb of T-shirt, jeans, and baseball cap marked him clearly as an alien. The animal in him prompted him to go to ground and move quietly and quickly through the foreign territory. It was safest, both as a stranger and a mutant, to remain as unremarkable as possible.
Logan was approaching a school building when he stopped cold and inhaled deeply. The stench of raw fear assaulted his senses. He narrowed his eyes, scanning for the source of the smell and moved noiselessly in its direction, towards an alleyway adjacent to the school. Hidden by the shrubbery of the house next door, he watched an all too typical city scene unfolding. Three teenage boys, obviously not from this community if their clothing was any indication, had surrounded a girl of about 17 or 18, dressed modestly like all the local women but with her long, dark hair cascading down her back, and had her backed against a wall. One held a knife, another a gun. As yet they had done nothing more than verbally terrorize her but Logan knew from their reek of sick arousal that they intended much more. The girl was putting up a brave front against the ethnic taunts that the street scum were hurling at her but it was clear to him that she was in for a very bad time and she knew it.
He slid silently towards the group and waited. When the unarmed teenager finally reached out an arm to grab the girl's shoulder Logan spoke. "I wouldn't do that, bub." His voice was casual despite an indignation bordering on rage coursing through him. He hoped the punks would challenge him. Garbage like that needed to be taught a lesson and he was just itching to be the teacher. A nice, old-fashioned pounding - without claws - would be very satisfying right now.
The girl's gaze flickered over towards the source of the new voice and what she saw did not inspire too much confidence. Her would-be savior was short, unarmed, and, worst of all, alone. It didn't appear that her situation had improved at all. The boys seemed to agree. They looked over in his direction and laughed openly. The tallest one, apparently the ringleader, turned and said, "Fuck off, midget. This bitch is ours. Get yer own piece of ass."
"Tsk, tsk," Logan reprimanded. He shook his head slowly and feigned disappointment. "Such language in front of a lady."
Before they could react he dropped into a fighter's crouch, balled his fist, and connected solidly with the stomach of the boy nearest him. The air went out of him and he groaned in agony, falling to the pavement. Instead of showing good sense and running away, the other two punks rounded on Logan and attempted to attack simultaneously. Logan let a half-smile play across his face, grabbed the wrist of the boy holding the gun, and squeezed. As the gun fell to the ground he smashed his right fist into the kid's jaw, feeling bone splintering and teeth shattering. The kid went down like a rock and Logan was disappointed. This was far too easy.
Suddenly he felt a burning pain across his abdomen and realized that the knife-wielding bastard had scored a lucky hit. A growl began low in his throat, increasing in volume as he bared his teeth in a snarl. He slapped the knife out of the kid's hand contemptuously and watched it fly into the bushes next door. A short jab followed by a hard uppercut and Logan watched the blood spatter as the boy was propelled backwards by the adamantium-laced punches. He brushed his hands down his jeans and felt a twinge across his middle as the slash began to knit together. Nice work, he thought. None of this slime would be bothering any woman for a long, long time.
The girl had remained pushed back against the brick wall, paralyzed by fear both of her attackers and her unexpected champion. Now, as Logan turned towards her, he sensed the renewed terror coursing through her. He stepped back from her and schooled his rugged features into what he hoped was a genial smile. "It's okay now, kid. No one's gonna bother ya anymore. C'mon, lemme take ya home ta yer folks. What's yer name?"
The girl was getting herself back under control again and Logan was impressed that she hadn't had a screaming fit or passed out. Yet. After experiencing a near rape and witnessing at close range the carnage he had just inflicted hardly any reaction of hers would have surprised him. He reached out a hand to help her away from the wall. She didn't seem scared of him anymore but she politely refused the hand and pushed herself away from the building on her own.
"Thank you. I'm Rayzel Goldfarb. I really appreciate what you did for me, Mister. . . "
"Logan."
"Mr. Logan." He didn't bother to correct her. "Thank G-d you were here just now. I don't know what would have happened otherwise." Her voice was quiet and almost calm again. It had rich, soothing tone and Logan thought that a man could listen to that voice for hours without losing interest. "But I can make it home by myself. You really don't need to. . . "
"Yeah, I know. But I'm gonna, anyway. C'mon, it's not worth the fight, Rayzel. My head's harder than yers any day." Logan grinned at the private joke but was gratified nonetheless to see her smile. The smile transformed her face and Logan realized suddenly that Rayzel was a very pretty young girl on the verge of stunning womanhood. He ruthlessly checked his runaway thoughts, reminding himself that she was still a girl and a very religious one at that. He didn't have any place here.
"I live just around the corner, Mr. Logan. It's not far. But that. . . that person," she spat the word scornfully, as if merely alluding to her attacker was loathsome, "hurt you. You need a doctor." She glanced down at his torn shirt and was visibly surprised to see no wound. "He cut you. I saw him."
Logan shrugged. "I heal pretty quickly."
She lifted a finely arched eyebrow at him doubtfully but let the comment pass.
As they walked the short distance Rayzel explained that she was a teacher-in-training at the school where she had been attacked and had been walking a younger student from one building to another. She was on her way back when she'd been waylaid. This type of thing didn't happen too often in Borough Park but this was still New York and there were still too many idiots roaming the streets who thought that Orthodox Jews made easy targets.
In front of a two-family home identical to nearly every other one on the block, with trikes, balls, and dolls littering the postage-stamp sized front yard, Rayzel stopped and turned to Logan. "Thank you again, Mr. Logan. I'll never forget what you did for me. I know your being here now was meant to be." She turned and went towards the house, stopping to flash him a brilliant smile before disappearing inside.
Logan stood in front of the house for a moment and had a strange feeling, a foreboding almost, that it would be a long time before he would forget Rayzel Goldfarb, either.
Still set on the cannolis, though, Logan set himself back in the direction of the bakery. He passed a plain, box-like building that looked jarringly out of place, as if it had been randomly dropped in among the houses, kids' toys, and cars. A small sign over door was written in letters he didn't understand and there was no other outward indication of what the building might be. His sensitive ears picked up the muddled hum of male voices, some mumbling, some chanting, again in a foreign language. He paused to listen and abruptly the confusion stopped and the voices joined together in an inexplicably familiar cadence. Logan clutched at his head and suddenly felt as if he were on the receiving end of one of Juggernaut's pummelings. The psychic pain was nearly unbearable and Logan didn't know why. His face twisted in agony and he began snarling and tried to lash out at his unseen tormentor. Just as quickly as it began, though, the pain ended as the sounds from inside the building dissolved once again into disjointed murmurs. Without understanding how he knew, Logan recognized that the men were saying afternoon prayers and somehow the sounds of the one particular prayer had caused his suffering. He hadn't the faintest idea how this could be possible and resolved to push this encounter, along with his meeting with Rayzel Goldfarb, as far to the back of his mind as possible.
Hank needed those cannolis.
Glossary
bet din - court of religious law composed of three Rabbis who rule on religious matters
goyim - non-Jews, not necessarily a pejorative term
Kaddish - "Sanctification," the Jewish prayer for the dead recited by mourners, composed in Aramaic
mama'le - "little mother," a term of endearment used either to an actual maternal parent or a little girl
nu - untranslatable, generally used as a verbal prompt
Shabbos - the Sabbath, lasting from sundown Friday night to sundown Saturday night
shul - synagogue
Vilna - present-day Vilnius, Lithuania, a city once renowned as a great seat of Jewish learning
Yisgadal v'yiskadash, etc. - the beginning words of the Kaddish
The prayer translates as follows:
May His great Name grow exalted and sanctified in the world that He created as He willed. May He give reign to His kingship in your lifetimes and in your days, and in the lifetimes of the entire Family of Israel, swiftly and soon. Now respond: Amen.
Amen. May His great Name be blessed forever and ever.
Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the Name of the Holy One, Blessed is He beyond any blessing and song, praise and consolation that are uttered in the world. Now respond: Amen.
May there be abundant peace from Heaven, and life, upon us and upon all Israel. Now respond: Amen.
He Who makes peace in His heights, may he make peace upon us, and upon all Israel. Now respond: Amen.*
* translation taken from The Complete ArtScroll Siddur, copyright 1984 Mesorah Publications, Ltd.
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