Rowley Amato, author of “The Sons of Victor Levitak” in The Future Fire #74, joins us to talk about his story and other speculative matters in our micro-interview series.
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| Art © 2025, Toeken |
TFF: What does “The Sons of Victor Levitak” mean to you?
Rowley Amato: “The Sons of Victor Levitak” is a wistful look back at a time when the American Jewish Left was muscular, organized, and unapologetically radical. I am a proud Jew, and with global fascism on the march and genocide being committed in our name, I sort of see this story as an attempt to reclaim and assert that radical history, and perhaps show that an alternative world is possible. I was primarily influenced by three texts: a 2020 article in Jewish Currents magazine about leftist co-op developments of the Bronx; Cynthia Ozick’s 1997 novel The Puttermesser Papers; and the rabbi Joshua Trachtenberg’s writings on Jewish magic and folklore. Each of these works move me deeply, and they inform the voice, content, and general vibe of my story in different ways.
TFF: Have you ever wished you could go back in time and change just one thing?
RA: Yes, and I think about this question all the time. There are lots of “big” things I would change (e.g., killing Hitler, thwarting the assasination of Lincoln, etc.), but I will keep things local: I would go back in time to the early 1930s and stop the New York City urban planner Robert Moses from seizing control of the Triborough Bridge Authority. This would deny him the source of power and funding that allowed him to inflict his wildly destructive agenda on the Bronx and New York City as a whole. Of course, the unintended consequences could be dire, so the only responsible answer is that I am not one to meddle with time travel.
TFF: What are you working on next?
RA: I’m currently working on a few horror short stories. I’ve also started planning a science fiction/mystery novel.
Extract
Victor Levitak was not well-loved by the other residents of the Coop, but we sat a feeble shiva for him anyway.
Marty Feinberg worked with Victor on the fabric cutters’ line down at the Lefcourt lofts and was, by our estimation, the closest thing he had to a friend. We looked to him to deliver the mourner’s kaddish. He stared at his shoes and quickly rushed through words that held no meaning for us, until, eventually, his Hebrew failed him.
“Well, anyway… he found peace.” He shrugged. “A great blessing, in my opinion.”
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