The Yiddish Policemen's Union

He’s feeling a little giddy, a little tragic. He is ripe for the grand gesture, the operatic mistake. Manic is probably the word.

You have to look to Jews like Bina Gelbfish, Landsman thinks, to explain the wide range and persistence of the race. Jews who carry their homes in an old cowhide bag, on the back of a camel, in the bubble of air at the center of their brains. Jews who land on their feet, hit the ground running, ride out the vicissitudes, and make the best of what f

“My point is that Jews mean bullshit. A thousand laminated layers of politics and lies buffed to a high sheen.

Landsman considers the things that remain his to lose: a porkpie hat. A travel chess set and a Polaroid picture of a dead messiah. A boundary map of Sitka, profane, ad hoc, encyclopedic, crime scenes and low dives and chokeberry brambles, printed on the tangles of his brain. Winter fog that blankets the heart, summer afternoons that stretch endless

“Can a man be a Tzaddik Ha-Dor but live hidden from himself and

he talks, somebody once remarked, “like a sausage recipe with footnotes.”

He was both faithful and without a shred of faith,

Every Messiah fails, writes Litvak, the moment he tries to redeem himself

“Ever make a mistake?” Bina asks the boundary maven. “Tell someone he can carry where he’s not allowed to carry? Draw a line where no line needs to be drawn?”