Ganady experienced the sudden deflation of hopes he hadn't known he had.

"Have you seen any miracles in Philadelphia?"

Father Z's graying brows knotted eloquently above his horn rims. He scratched behind his ear. "No."

"Do you think there could be miracles here?"

"I don't see why not."

"Nikolai says old-world magic doesn't work here," Ganady confided. "He says America is too practical for miracles."

Father Z's hand fell lightly on his shoulder. "Miracles, Ganny, take faith."

"Yeah, Baba said that, too."

"I should like to meet this grandmother of yours. She sounds like a very spiritual woman."

"She doesn't believe in Jesus," Ganady blurted. "Yevgeny's afraid that means she's going to h.e.l.l. But she fears G.o.d and she always does what's right."

Ganady decided it would be best not to divulge to the Father that Baba annually hired Armin the opshprekher to exorcise her family back into the synagogue.

"Ah," Father said, in knowing tones, and squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry, Ganny. Much may happen in a person's life. Your grandmother is in G.o.d's hands, but you can pray for her soul. And you can have faith that G.o.d will hear your prayers."

Ganady wandered away from Saint Stan's bemusedly pondering his extraordinary circ.u.mstances. Baba was trying to pray her family back into the faith of their fathers so they would be safe on the Day of Judgment. Father Z seemed to think Ganady wanted to pray his Baba into the Church so she would be safe on that same Day.

Was this what he meant when he spoke from the altar about spiritual battles? Ganady could not accept that he should be embattled against his Baba. It was unthinkable. He didn't mind using his prayers to protect himself from being exorcised, but to invoke Church magic to convert her from her faith-it didn't seem right.

Ganady wandered several blocks both mentally and physically, fetching up on the steps of the Megidey Tihilim. He paused there in the street and wondered if it would be worthwhile to ask his questions about miracles, magic and such of Rabbi Andrukh. If he did ask, might he receive a different answer?

As he stared up at the thick doors in deep thought, turning The Baseball in his pocket and ever so gently biting the tip of his tongue, those very doors opened and who should appear but Rabbi Andrukh himself, rag in hand. He proceeded to apply the rag to the front doors, spreading a sheen of oil over the stained wood.

Ganady stood transfixed. Clearly the Rabbi had not seen him there, and he didn't know if he should call attention to his presence or remain silent. If he held perfectly still, he reasoned, the Rabbi might even take him for a police call-box.

Even as Ganady had the thought, the good Rabbi glanced up from his polishing and said, "Well, Ganady Puzdrovsky! I didn't see you there!" He chuckled and shook out his rag. "Truth to tell, I took you for a police call-box, but I recalled no police call-box just there. I had to look in case G.o.d or the city of Philadelphia had wrought some sort of miracle."

Well, Ganady had no choice but to accept that Rabbi Andrukh's timely appearance, his mention of miracles, and his coincidental words about call-boxes amounted to a sign from G.o.d. Clearly, he was to ask the Rabbi.

"Are you coming in?"

"Yes, sir." Ganady came up the steps into the dark warmth of the synagogue.

"And for what have you come to shul on a Tuesday? Nothing is wrong with your Baba, I hope?"

"Oh, no, Rabbi. It's only that I have a question."

"A question?" The Rabbi looked puzzled, his auburn brows meeting above a prominent nose.

A presidential nose, Ganady thought. He looked like a young Abraham Lincoln, which was appropriate, for his given name was Ibrahim.

"I have a few things to do about the sanctuary, but I can try to answer your question," said Ibrahim Andrukh.

Ganady very quickly found himself in possession of yet another box of candles-tapers, this time.

"So what is this question you have?"

"Well, I was wondering if G.o.d still does miracles and if He ever does them in Philly."

Rabbi smiled, just as Father Z had done, as if the question were somehow amusing. "What sort of miracles did you have in mind?" he said, echoing Father Z further.

It was the second time today Ganady had heard the question and realized that he really had no clear idea of the answer.

"I was just wondering, I guess: if the Israelites had pillars of smoke and fire and the saints and apostles...well, if they had those things, what do we have? I mean if you needed some help or protection or something magical to happen, would it?"

Rabbi Andrukh gave Ganady such a long and searching look that he thought his soul must have turned completely inside out.

"I suppose that would depend on why one wanted the thing to happen, and what would be the consequences of it happening."

"Oh, it wouldn't be bad magic, Father," Ganady rushed to a.s.sure him. "It'd be good magic."

"Rabbi," said Rabbi Andrukh, and Ganady blushed violently.

"I'm sorry. I was just talking to Father Z-I mean, Father Zembruski."

"I see. And did you ask him about miracles, too?"

Ganny nodded.

"I see. And what did he tell you?"

"That G.o.d sort of does miracles as they're needed. Whatever fits, I guess."

"And did he believe that G.o.d still does miracles?"

"Oh, sure. But he's never seen one in South Philly. Do you believe in miracles, Rabbi Andrukh?"

"Yes, Ganny. I do."

"Have you ever seen one?"

"I..." Rabbi Andrukh fell silent for a moment, going inside himself.

Ganady clutched the box of tapers and waited.

"I've not seen a burning bush," said the Rabbi carefully. "And I can't even imagine what manna from heaven must have tasted like, but I do believe that for many of the people in this synagogue, just being here and alive is a miracle."

"You mean the war, huh?"

"Yes. And the concentration camps and the pogroms."

"Father Zembruski told me about how one of our teachers at Saint Casimir nearly died of scarlet fever, but was saved by hot and cold water and prayers. He said he thought that was a miracle. But it happened in Poland. All the things Baba's told me, too, they all happened somewhere else. Do you think miracles can happen here? Baba says there used to be magic in the world, maybe there still is in the old country, but where's the magic here?"

"Well, now, Ganady, I'm not at all sure that miracles and magic are the same thing. I think perhaps miracles come from G.o.d and magic comes from somewhere else."

Ganady was afraid to hear where that might be. "From the Devil?"

Rabbi smiled. "No, not the Devil, but perhaps it comes from ourselves."

Ganady felt a tingle of relief. "Is that a bad thing?"

"It certainly could be, but not necessarily."

"Rabbi, you know Mr. Ouspensky."

"Of course, I know him. He sits third row center every sabes and has done so since I first came to this synagogue."

"You know how he sometimes talks about time-eddies? You know, windows in time you can see through?"

Rabbi Andrukh looked aside and nodded, lips pursed. Ganady thought he was hiding a smile. "I've heard people...discussing his...ideas. He's never mentioned them to me."

Ganady hadn't imagined he would. "Well, would that be magic or a miracle? And if it's magic, how would the magic get into a person?"

Now, Rabbi Andrukh laughed. "Ganady! Such questions! What makes you ask such things?"

"Well, Mr. Ouspensky, for one thing. And Baba, I guess. They both believe in magic. And, well, the opshprekher."

"The opshprekher," repeated Rabbi and the smile went out of his eyes.

Ganady nodded and prayed he wasn't transgressing some spiritual code of secrecy. "Every year we go there and Baba has the opshprekher bless the family and exorcise us."

"Exorcise you of what?"

Ganady felt as if his ears had lit up. He mumbled: "She wants us to be Jewish again. "

"Ah. I see. And you're wondering if the opshprekher has the power to make you Jewish."

"Does he, do you think?"

"No, I don't think, Ganady. The opshprekher is something from our fearful past. He is what I would call an anachronism. Something not of this time."

Ganady was surprised at his own disappointment. "But if the opshprekher doesn't have any magic, then who does?"

Rabbi put a hand on his shoulder. "Ganny, I didn't say there wasn't any magic or miracle left in the world. I think only that the opshprekher doesn't have it. I'd sooner believe that Mr. Ouspensky has magic, Ganny, than that the opshprekher has it. I'd sooner believe that you had it."

The thought sobered Ganady to silence. He asked no more about magic of Rabbi Andrukh, but only finished helping him with the candles.

Before he left he had but one more question: "About the opshprekher...Baba won't be in trouble...?"

Rabbi smiled. "And who would she be in trouble with?"

"With you...or with G.o.d?" He rolled his eyes upward.

"Well, most certainly she is not in trouble with me, and as to G.o.d, if she's in trouble with Him, He'll let her know."

Ganady thanked the Rabbi for his help and wandered off again. He found himself wishing there were a ma.s.s tonight or even a minyan for prayer, for he was hungry for the flicker of candlelight and the fragrance of incense and the soft music of prayers. But there was no ma.s.s, so he decided he must settle for bit of corned beef.

His errant feet carried him to the zibete and thence to Izzy's, where he hoped to find Mr. Ouspensky. He was disappointed in that, but he had a few coins in his pocket beneath The Baseball and those few coins were p.r.o.nounced by Izzy to be the exact cost of a corned beef sandwich.

Ganady folded his lanky frame onto a stool at the counter, munched corned beef and pondered questions and answers. He didn't think he was any more introspective than usual, but before he had quite half-eaten the sandwich, Izzy was standing across the counter from him, arms folded over his narrow chest, eyes chipping at him like steel-gray chisels.

"And what is the matter with Ganady, that he has eyes only for that pickle, there?" He aimed his chin at Ganady's plate.

Ganady looked up into Izzy's face and swallowed a mouthful of sandwich.

"Mr. Davidov," he said, "do you believe in magic?"

Five: Moonlight On Waves.

One week in late April, Izzy's brother visited from Baltimore. His brother was not only Orthodox, but observant. Izzy's diner, therefore, was not open any sabes during the visitation.

Baba Irina held court on the front stoop of the Puzdrovsky brownstone one nearly balmy sabes-eve while the merrily mournful keen of klezmer music floated down from an upstairs window. Her two boychiklech sat one to each side, one daydreaming, the other awaiting the opening of the Book of Baba.

Nick was at a dance at the Youth Center and Ganady could not help but reflect that he would not be dancing to such music as radiated from the Puzdrovsky turntable. There was a time when Nikolai Puzdrovsky had been a member of their after-service society and had even tapped his toes to the likes of Moishe Oysher and Naftule Brandwein. But were he here now, Ganady knew, there would be much eye-rolling. This was no longer Nick's idea of music, and he sometimes teased Ganady unmercifully about his own attempt to master the clarinet.

There were crickets somewhere unseen, keeping time to the merry chatter of fiddle and accordion. There were people on the street, strolling and remarking on the mild weather. They were families with children; they were couples holding hands.

The elder Puzdrovskys were out there, too, somewhere, strolling. One night long ago, they had walked over rolling water, hand in hand. He wondered what kind of music they had heard seeping from the ship's grand salon.

"Baba," he said, "didn't Mama and Da meet at a ball on the ship coming over?"

"So to speak. There were no b.a.l.l.s and such in third cla.s.s, you know. They met as they were trying to sneak into a dance in second cla.s.s. It was a lark and they got caught before they even set one foot on the dance floor. Their clothes, you understand... They were escorted back to their place."

"But Mama said they danced to a special song."

"Sheyn vi di Levune-Beautiful as the Moon." Mama's voice came up to them from the sidewalk. She stood arm in arm with Da in the lamplight.

It seemed to Ganady that her face glowed softly with its own light and that it was every bit as beautiful as the t.i.tular moon. His father's eyes, on her face, seemed to say the same.

"There was a man on the foredeck playing his accordion. Vitaly asked " -here, she looked up at him - "and he played for us so we could dance there under all the stars."

Da smiled.

Baba, looking at them standing there, said,"How well I remember my Ravke, how she came to me saying 'Oh, Mama! It was so romantic! The moon, the waves, the music!'"