The Golem and the Jinni

  Together they made their way back to solid ground. His shoes were ruined; he took them off and thumped them on a tree. Next to him, the Golem tried to brush the mud from her cloak. They glanced at each other, smiled quickly and looked away, like children who’d been caught at something.

  They took the carriage road south again, and soon they were through the gates and back in the world of granite and concrete. The farther they got from the park, the more the Golem seemed to lose her strange energy. She frowned at her muddy boots, and muttered that she’d have to wash out her cloak. By the time they reached Broadway, she seemed as likely to run for sheer pleasure as to sprout wings and fly. In fact, it was he who was still held by an unreal daze. The familiar streets seemed full of new details: the scrollwork on the lampposts, the carved ornaments above the doorways. He felt as though something inside him was about to break open, or fall apart.

  In what seemed no time at all they were in the alley beside her boardinghouse. “We’ll go back again, when it’s warmer,” he said.

  She smiled. “I’d like that. Thank you.” She took his hand and squeezed it tightly, her cool fingers around his. And then as always she was gone, and he was left to walk home alone, through streets still hung with morning mist.

  18.

  Passover stretched on, and the Lower East Side turned into one giant craving: for a pastry, a bagel, anything really, as long as it wasn’t matzo. Finally, mercifully, the holiday ended, and the neighborhood streamed to the local bakeries in relief. Knowing that her morning shopping trip would be akin to a mob scene, the Sheltering House cook deputized Joseph Schall to go with her to Shimmel’s, their new supplier, and help carry back as much bread as possible. Michael had justified the switch from Radzin’s with talk of better labor practices and the need to support younger businesses; but the cook remembered the gift of almond macaroons, noticed Michael’s recent glum mood, and didn’t ask too many questions.

  On this day, though, Shimmel’s was a madhouse. The line stretched far out the door; inside, the employees were running around in a panic, searching for ingredients and frantically rolling out dough, or else apologizing to disgruntled customers whose favorites had already disappeared from the cases. The cook stuck her head in, frowned, came back out. “We’re going to Radzin’s,” she told Schall. “Michael won’t know the difference.”

  Yehudah Schaalman could not have cared less which bakery they bought their bread at. The strain of passing himself as kindly old Joseph Schall was taking its toll. He’d been to every synagogue, every yeshiva, every place of Jewish learning he could find, and he felt no closer to his goal, to the secret to life eternal. Never once had he felt a pull from his dowsing spell, even though he knew without doubt that it had worked. Was this why he’d come to New York, to run errands and settle dormitory squabbles? For a month now he’d gritted his teeth and continued, having no other choice. This was his only hand; he’d play it out until he won, or it killed him.

  With as much enthusiasm as he could counterfeit he followed the cook back through the sodden, overcrowded streets. The line at Radzin’s was no shorter, but at least it moved. Inside, he hovered near the door, distrusting the crowd. The bakery was packed with people, their steamy exhalations fogging the glass and turning the air thick and humid. Schaalman began to sweat in his wool coat. At least the workers were diverting to look at. They moved quick as machines, especially the tall girl at the near table, who was rolling out dough as if she’d been born to it. He found himself fascinated by her hands. They moved without pause, without a single wasted gesture. He looked up at her face—a plain girl, yet familiar-looking—

  There was a sharp, insistent tug as the dowsing spell came to bear. And in that moment, he recognized her.

  The girl looked up, startled. Her eyes confusedly roved the crowd, as though not sure what she was looking for.

  But Schaalman had already slipped out the door. He forced himself to keep calm, his mind clear, until he reached the end of the block, and then leaned against a wall, trembling with shock.

  His golem! The golem he’d built for Rotfeld! She was here, in New York! He’d imagined her rotting away in some rubbish dump—but did that mean that Rotfeld had brought her to life on the ship, before he died? He must have; he’d been more than fool enough to do it. And now she was roaming masterless in New York, a hunk of clay with teeth and hair, a dangerous creature who looked like a woman. And Schaalman had no idea what it could possibly mean.

  It lasted only the briefest of moments: a sense that someone had seen her, seen to the heart of her, and been afraid. But in the next instant there were only the customers, their desires for rye bread and rugelach. Still, she stood listening with all her senses until Mrs. Radzin shot her a strange look. “Chava? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I thought I heard someone call my name.” She smiled quickly, and then bent back over her work, wondering. Occasionally someone would wander in off the street with an unquiet mind, from drink or illness or misfortune; perhaps it was one of these, someone who’d arrived at the right answer for the wrong reasons. Or else she’d been working too quickly, and had been noticed. In any case, there was nothing she could do about it, not with a line out the door and six sheets of cookies in the oven. For the rest of the day she listened, but heard nothing; and other, more insistent worries rose to eclipse it.

  Anna’s situation was growing worse. The girl was now retreating at least twice a day into the water closet to vomit, and the Radzins had, inevitably, taken notice. At each of Anna’s hurried departures, Mrs. Radzin’s mouth would pinch in distaste, and Mr. Radzin’s expression would turn sour. It was clear to all that the jig was up, but still, maddeningly, no one said a word. They said plenty to themselves, though; and by midweek the Golem thought she might go deaf from the noise.

  At night, over her sewing, she reviewed the silently gleaned details of Anna’s situation. The girl was at least two months along. Her young man still didn’t know. She’d told two girlfriends, sworn them to secrecy, though who knew how long that would last. She thought about having it taken care of, but she couldn’t afford to go uptown, and the places on the Bowery frightened her more than telling Irving. She liked to tease and quarrel with him, liked making up after an argument even more, but who was he at heart? Who would he be, when she told him?

  The Golem turned it over and over, trying to decide what Anna should do, but she could find no advice to give. The Rabbi would say that her friend had acted rashly, made poor choices, and this was undoubtedly true. But when placed next to Anna’s her own life seemed a pale shadow, without even the opportunity to make Anna’s mistakes. She wasn’t human. She would never have children. Love itself might be beyond her. How could she say she wouldn’t have done the same as Anna, if she’d been born instead of made?

  At dawn she was still hunched over these thoughts, irritably stabbing her needle into someone’s trouser-leg. Not even a week had passed since her heedless run in Central Park, and the easy joy of it seemed like someone else’s memory. Then again, it had been a strange experience. She remembered the insistent pull of the earth, and the way her senses had stretched out in every direction, taking in the whole of the park. And the Jinni: he’d looked so oddly lost in the alleyway, so unlike his usual confident self, and she couldn’t even guess the reason. She’d grabbed his hand out of an impulse to reassure herself that he was still there.

  She tied off the thread, snipped it close to the knot. There. Trousers mended. She only wished these men would stop ripping them.

  She put on her cloak and walked to the bakery, braced for another day of fears and silences. And then Anna came through the back door and ripped the ground from beneath her feet.

  “Chava!” She grabbed the Golem’s hands, every inch of her radiating happiness. “Congratulate me, I’m getting married!”

  “What?”

  “Irving proposed last night! He proposed and I said yes!”

  “Oh, my dear!” cried Mrs. Ra
dzin. She swooped down on the girl, all offenses instantly forgiven. “How wonderful! Come here, tell me everything!”

  “Well, we’re just terribly in love, so we’re getting married as soon as we can—”

  Mr. Radzin fell to coughing.

  “—and then, you’ll never guess, we’re moving to Boston!”

  Mrs. Radzin gasped, as she was meant to, and Anna went on to explain about Irving’s friend who’d left New York to help out at his uncle’s textile mill. “And now there’s a job waiting there for Irving if he wants it. He’ll be an assistant manager, with men under him and everything. Imagine me, a boss’s wife!”

  The two women went on chatting happily while the Golem stood there dazed. A wedding? Boston? Was this possible? She’d seen Anna’s dilemma as a harrowing choice from among deeply flawed options. Now, listening to the women debate the merits of a lace wedding dress versus embroidered satin, she realized that she’d never once imagined a happy outcome.

  Soon Mr. Radzin began to complain that they were running behind, and that they should plan Anna’s trousseau on their own time. All went back to work, and the mood in the bakery returned to something like normal, though little Abie still snuck occasional peeks at Anna, as though expecting her to turn into a fairy princess. At the end of the day, watching Anna retrieve her cloak in the back room, the Golem realized she hadn’t even properly congratulated her. She crossed the room and caught Anna in a hug. Startled, the girl gasped a laugh. “Chava, you’re squeezing the life from me!”

  She let go immediately; Anna’s face was red and smiling, there was no real damage done. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I just wanted to say congratulations! But I’ll miss you terribly, is Boston very far away? Can you get there by streetcar? Oh, no, I suppose not.”

  Anna was laughing now. “Chava, you goose! You’re a mystery, I swear.”

  The words were pouring out, all her week’s worry relieved in a single torrent. “I’m just so happy for you! What did he say when you told him—” She stopped, clapped a hand over her mouth. Thankfully the Radzins were in the alley outside, waiting to lock up for the night.

  Anna stifled a nervous giggle. “Hush, for heaven’s sake! I’ve done a poor job of hiding it, I know, but everything’s all right now. He was surprised, of course, who wouldn’t be, but then he got so sweet and solemn, it nearly made my heart break. He started talking about Boston, and how this was a sign he should grow up and settle down. And then he just swooped down on his knees and asked me! Of course I burst into tears, I couldn’t even say yes properly!”

  “Are you two staying the night?” called Mr. Radzin from the alley. “If not, some of us would like to get home.”

  Anna rolled her eyes, and they went out and said their good-byes to the Radzins. “What a beautiful evening,” Anna said to the Golem as they walked, taking no note of the garbage-smelling alleys, the damp and chilling breeze. The Golem smiled, watching her. Tonight she could relax over her sewing, even enjoy it a little. And tomorrow, she could tell the Jinni that everything was better at the bakery. Perhaps, just this once, they wouldn’t even argue.

  Anna said, “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing,” the Golem said. “A friend. Why?”

  “I’ve never seen you smile like that. Is this friend a man? Oh, don’t turn shy, Chava! You can’t hide from the world forever, even widows need to live a little! All due respect to your late husband, of course—but would he have wanted you to lie in an empty bed for the rest of your life?”

  She tried to imagine Rotfeld’s opinion on the matter. Likely he would have wanted exactly that. “I suppose not,” she muttered, conscious of the lie.

  “Then come out and have fun for once.”

  She had the sense of the conversation veering out of her control. She laughed, a bit panicked. “Anna, I wouldn’t even know how.”

  “I’ll help you,” the girl said, with the grand generosity of the newly happy. “We’ll start tomorrow night. There’s a dance at a casino on Broome Street. I can get you in for free, I know the doorman. I’ll introduce you to my friends, they know all the best men.”

  A dance? In an unfamiliar place, surrounded by strangers? “But I’ve never been—I don’t know how to dance.”

  “We’ll teach you! There’s nothing to it. If you can walk, you can dance.” She grabbed the Golem’s hands. “Oh, please come, Chava. It would mean so much to me. You can meet Irving! He promised me he’ll be there.” She giggled. “I want to dance with him while I can still see my feet!”

  Well, perhaps that changed things. Meeting Irving would put to rest any lingering fears about what sort of man he was. As for dancing, perhaps she could plead fatigue, or sore feet. But, wait: what about the Jinni? She’d be meeting him tomorrow! “What time is the dance?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  So early? That settled it. The Jinni never arrived before eleven. She could go to the dance hall and meet Irving, and perhaps even dance once or twice if it made Anna happy. And then she’d plead her excuses, and meet the Jinni under her window. “All right,” she said, smiling. “I’ll come.”

  “Wonderful!” cried Anna. “Meet me at eight-thirty, at my friends Phyllis and Estelle’s place—” and she gave the address, a tenement on Rivington. “We’ll walk over together, not too early. You never want to be early to a dance, it makes you look too eager. Don’t worry about what to wear, just put on your best shirtwaist, that’s what most of us do. Oh, I’m so excited!” Anna clasped her in a fierce hug, which the Golem returned, amused; and then the girl was off down the street, head high, cloak swinging behind her.

  The Golem continued home. It was growing dark, and the street-cart vendors were making their final sales. Near her boardinghouse she passed a man pushing a cart piled high with women’s clothing. There was a sign nailed to the side of the cart: BEST WOMEN’S FASHIONS, it said, and then below that, in smaller letters, PARDON ME I’m mute. The Golem thought about what Anna had said about shirtwaists. She glanced down at her own tired cuffs, frayed past the point of mending. Her other shirtwaist, she knew, was no better.

  She walked up to the man and tapped him on the shoulder. He put down the cart and turned, eyebrows raised.

  “Hello,” she said, nervous. “I’m going to a dance tomorrow. Do you have shirtwaists for dancing in?”

  He raised one hand, a gesture that said, say no more. From his pocket he pulled a cloth tape measure, and mimed for her to hold out her arms. She did so, amused at the expressive precision of his gestures, which left no room for dissembling. Perhaps we should all learn to be mute, she thought.

  He took her measurements with quick movements, then rolled the tape measure away and put one hand to his chin, considering. Turning back to the pushcart, he rifled through a stack of shirtwaists. With a flourish he pulled one out and held it up. It was certainly no workaday waist. The cream-colored fabric was closely woven, much finer than her own. Sheer ruffles ran up the length of the bodice and behind the high collar; the cuffs were ringed with them as well. It tapered to a midriff so narrow that the Golem wondered how a woman would breathe in it. The man proffered it—yes?

  “How much?”

  He held up four fingers; in his mind she saw three. She stifled a smile. Perhaps some subterfuges were universal, no matter the language.

  It was an extravagance, but one she could afford. She opened her wallet, counted out four dollars, and handed them to the peddler. The man’s eyes widened in surprise. He handed her the shirtwaist, and accepted the money with, she saw, some measure of embarrassment. “Thank you,” she said, and went on her way.

  She hadn’t made it more than a few steps before the peddler hurried around in front of her and held up his hands: wait. From a coat pocket he withdrew two imitation tortoiseshell combs, their heads cut to resemble roses. He reached up and neatened the part in the Golem’s hair, sweeping a few errant strands across the crown of her head. Then he smoothed back the hair to the left of the part and pinned
it with a comb, its teeth snug against her scalp. He performed the same maneuver on the right side, giving the hair a half-twist before setting the comb tightly in place. He stepped back, nodded at his work, and walked back to his waiting cart.

  “Wait!” the Golem called. “Don’t you want me to pay?”

  He shook his head, not even turning, and trundled his pushcart back up the street. She stood there for a few moments, perplexed, and then walked the rest of the way home.

  In her room, she slipped out of her old shirtwaist and buttoned up the new one. The reflection in her mirror was wholly startling. The ruffles behind the collar framed her face, accenting the hollows of her cheeks, her wide-set eyes. Her hair, shaped by the combs, spilled in waves to her shoulders. The frilled cuffs softened her hands, turning them slim and elegant. She studied herself for long minutes, pleased but uneasy. A mask or costume would’ve been less unnerving than these small transformations. She’d changed just enough to wonder if she was still herself.

  The next day was full of excited whispers and meaningful giggles from Anna, and by the afternoon Mrs. Radzin had caught wind of their plans. On some pretext she maneuvered the Golem into the back room. “You know your own mind, I’m sure,” the woman said. “But be careful, Chavaleh. You’re fond of Anna, I am too, but there’s no need to risk your reputation. And there are other men, better men than you can find at a dance hall. What about the Rabbi’s nephew? Wasn’t he sweet on you? I know he’s poor as a mouse, but money isn’t everything.”

  The Golem had had enough. “Mrs. Radzin, please. I don’t intend to ‘risk my reputation,’ certainly not in the way you mean. I’m going with Anna to meet Irving, and see what sort of man he is. Nothing more.”