He took a deep breath, his nostrils tingling from cold and the smells leaking from steamy kitchen windows. Every now and then, shouts could be heard—a mother scolding her children, a spat between husband and wife, a slamming door. The town didn’t seem to place a premium on privacy. Couldn’t possibly survive if it did, the houses built on top of one another.

New York—crowded and crowding. Everyone hemmed in. Decker longed to elbow the city in the ribs.

Give me some room, Mama.

The avenues seemed to be the business districts, storefronts gazing down narrow strips of bitten asphalt. The shops sold products that served the special needs of the community.

IZZY’S HATS; HOLIDAY SPECIAL FOR REBLOCKING. The place was nothing more than an aisle with racks of black hats.

ROCHEL’S SHAYTELS—this time the racks were full of wigs, as if some scalper had hit the mother lode.

CANNERY ROW—a store devoted to kosher dry and canned goods—all of the products certified by the Union of Orthodox Rabbis. This building was two-storied, the second floor occupied by Mendel the Scribe.

That’s what the upstairs window sign said—MENDEL THE SCRIBE: KETUBAHS AND GETS.

Wedding certificates, divorce certificates. Mendel was a man for all seasons.

Next to CANNERY ROW was GAN EDEN—the Garden of Eden. This outlet sold only fruits and vegetables. Inside was one long gondola covered with a thick plastic tarp. A handmade sign stood atop the tarp like a flag on a ship, announcing a sale on fresh horseradish root.

Little storefronts, locked tight with metal accordion grating, the display windows frosted with age. No community standards when it came to the outdoor signs—some were neon, some were lit with old-fashioned blinking bulbs, some were hand-lettered jobs. Placards were hanging on the doors of the Jewish establishments; on them were written the Hebrew words: SHANA TOVA TIKATEVU.

Happy New Year. May you be written in the book of life.

Between the shops were shtiebels—tiny, no-frills synagogues, many without pulpit rabbis. All had signs wishing people a Happy New Year.

His mind flashed to the holiday caveat: Only three things can avert the evil decree. Ten days between the New Year and the Day of Atonement—the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. Ten days to right the spiritual and physical wrongs. Sins were expunged by immersing the soul in prayer, doing proper penitence, and giving charity. He thought: Ten days allowed for a lot of breathing space.

Down the road was GLUCK’S SEPHARIM: RELIGIOUS BOOKS AND ARTICLES. Decker peered through the steel gate, inside the window. The place looked dusty. Or maybe it just appeared dusty because it was chock-full of books; the shelves seemed to be double and triple stacked, piles of tomes that reached the ceiling. Did the proprietor even know what he had in stock?