“I understand that this church was built to be a synagogue,” Mike said. “You know anything about that?”

“You spend enough time here, it’s hard not to notice. It’s the story of most cities, Mr. Chapman, and of many houses of worship,” Gaskin said. “The population changes and the demographics shift. One ethnic group replaces another, one religious community takes over the temples the others left behind. It’s not so strange.”

“What was the synagogue called then?” I asked.

“In English, it was People of Mercy. I can’t properly pronounce the Hebrew,” Gaskin said, jotting the words “Ansche Chesed” on a piece of paper he withdrew from his pants pocket. “I don’t suppose any of you can read this or tell me if I’m right?”

“Give it a whirl, kid,” Mike said to me, explaining in the next breath. “She was ‘Cooperized’ at Ellis Island. Some really complicated name was totally neutered.”

“My father’s parents were Russian Jews,” I said. My mother’s Finnish roots revealed themselves in my blond hair and pale green eyes. She had converted to Judaism when she married my father, and although I was raised as a reformed Jew, I was embarrassed at how little of the Hebrew language — or religious tradition — I knew. “But I can’t help with this one.”

“That’s all right. I came by Gaskin the hard way too. My great-granddaddy’s owner made sure all his slaves took his name.” He winked at me, and I noticed that his eyes were nearly as light in color as mine. “But our church isn’t unique around here. Mount Olivet Baptist, that was a synagogue too. So was Cross Church of Christ, on 118th. Look around here a little more carefully.”

“I never imagined.”

“A hundred years ago, when this place was built,” Gaskin said, “Harlem was the third largest Jewish settlement in the world — in the world — after the Lower East Side and Warsaw. It was a thriving community dominated by Jewish culture and heritage. There are remains of it in buildings all over the neighborhood.”