The Golem and the Djinni
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And so once again he became Ice Cream Saleh. The streets of New York were more crowded and treacherous than Homs, but his route was smaller and simpler, a narrow loop: Washington Street south to Cedar, then Greenwich north to Park, and back to Washington Street again. The children learned just as quickly as their Homs cousins to put the coin in his outstretched hand, and never to look into his eyes.
One sweltering afternoon, he was scooping ice cream into his small tin bowls when he felt a soft hand touch his elbow. Startled, he turned and glimpsed a woman’s cheekbone. Quickly he looked away. “Sir?” a voice said. “I have water for you, if you’d like. It’s so hot today.”
For a moment he considered refusing. But it was indeed incredibly hot, a humid oppression like none he’d ever known. His throat felt thick, and his head ached. He realized he didn’t have the strength to refuse. “Thank you,” he said finally, and held out one hand toward the direction of her voice.
She must have appeared puzzled, for he heard a child’s voice say, “You’ll have to give him the glass, he never looks at anyone.”
“Oh, I see,” the woman said. Carefully she placed the glass of water in his hand. The water was cool and clean, and he drank it down. “Thank you,” he said again, holding the glass out to her.
“You’re welcome. May I ask, what is your name?”
“Mahmoud Saleh. From Homs.”
“Mahmoud, I’m Maryam Faddoul. We’re standing in front of my coffeehouse. I live upstairs with my husband. If you’re in need of anything—more water, or a place to sit out of the sun—please, come in.”
“Thank you, madam,” he said to her.
“Please call me Maryam,” she said, and there was a friendly smile in her voice. “Everyone does.”
After that day, Maryam would often come out and speak with him and the children, whenever his slow trudge took him past her shop. The children all seemed to like Maryam: she took them seriously, remembered their names and the details of their lives. When Maryam was at his side he was inundated with customers, not just children but their mothers as well, and even merchants and factory workers returning home at the end of a shift. His route was a fraction of what it had been in Homs, but he sold just as much ice cream, if not more. In a way it was exasperating: he hadn’t come to America to succeed, but it seemed that America would not let him fail.
Now, with his churn in tow, he considered Maryam’s news of the Bedouin apprentice as he passed Arbeely’s shop. He’d never gone in, only felt the wave of heat from the open door. For a moment he considered it. Then, irritated at memories, he resolved to give no more thought to Maryam’s news but only watched the dark shapes of his feet as they moved inexorably toward his cellar home.
In the Syrian Desert, the three days of rain came to an end. The waters soaked into the earth, and soon green shoots were carpeting the lowlands, spreading up the sides of the hills. For the Bedouin tribes, these brief days were of great significance: a chance to turn their animals out to pasture and let them eat their fill, before the days grew hotter and the new growth died away.
And so it happened that one morning a Bedouin girl named Fadwa al-Hadid drove her small flock of goats out to the valley near her family’s encampment. Singing softly to herself and switching the straying goats with a thin branch, she crested a small ridge—and there, glinting in the valley, was an enormous palace made entirely of glass.
She goggled at it for a moment before deciding that it was, indeed, truly there. Bursting with excitement, she gathered her goats, ran them back to the encampment, and rushed into her father’s tent shouting about a shining palace that had suddenly appeared in the valley.
“It must have been a mirage,” said her father, Jalal ibn Karim al-Hadid, who was known to his clan as Abu Yusuf. Her mother, Fatim, simply snorted and shook her head, and went back to nursing her youngest. But the girl, who was fifteen, stubborn, and headstrong, dragged her father from the tent, pleading with him to go look at the palace with her.
“Daughter, you simply can’t have seen what you thought you saw,” said Abu Yusuf.
“Do you think me a child? I know a mirage when I see one,” she insisted. “And it stood as real before me as you do now.”
Abu Yusuf sighed. He knew that look in his daughter’s eye, that blazing indignation that defied any attempt at reason. Worse, he knew it was his own fault. Their clan had been fortunate of late, and it had made him indulgent. The winter had been mild, and the rains had come on time. His brothers’ wives had both born thriving sons. At the turning of the year, as Abu Yusuf had sat warm in the glow of the fires and watched his clan as they ate and played and squabbled around him, he’d told himself that perhaps finding a husband for Fadwa could wait. Let the girl have one more year with her family, before sending her away. But now Abu Yusuf wondered if his wife was right: perhaps he had coddled his only daughter beyond reason.
“I don’t have time to argue about nonsense,” he told her sharply. “Your uncles and I are taking the sheep to pasture. If there’s a magical palace out there, we’ll see it. Now go and help your mother.”
“But—”
“Girl, do as I say!”
He rarely shouted. She drew back, stung. Then she turned and ran into the women’s tent.
Fatim, who’d heard it all, came in after her and clucked her tongue at her daughter. Fadwa sniffed and avoided her eyes. She sat herself in front of the low table where the day’s dough was rising and began to rip the dough to pieces and pound them flat, using rather more force than necessary. Her mother sighed at the noise, but said nothing. Better the girl exhaust herself than stay a simmering nuisance all morning.
The women cooked and milked and mended as the sun traced its familiar path through the sky. Fadwa bathed her little cousins, and endured their howls and recriminations. The sun set, and still the men were not yet returned. Fatim’s expression began to darken. Bandits were rare in their valley, but even so, three men and a large herd of sheep would make an easy target. “Enough of that,” she snapped at Fadwa, who was struggling to clothe a squirming boy. “I’ll do it, since you can’t. Go and sew your wedding dress.”
Fadwa obeyed, though she’d rather do just about anything else. She was no good at fine stitching, she had little patience for it; she could weave well enough, and mend a tent as quick as Fatim, but embroidery? Little stitches arranged just so? It was dull work, and it made her go cross-eyed. More than once Fatim had looked over her daughter’s progress and commanded her to rip it all out again. No girl of hers, she declared, would be married in such a sloppy dress.
If it were up to Fadwa, she would toss the dress into the cooking fire and sing loudly as it burned. Life in her clan’s encampment grew more stifling with each day, but it was nothing compared with her terror at the idea of marriage. She knew she was a spoiled child; she knew her father loved her, and wouldn’t be so harsh as to choose a husband who was cruel or stupid simply to make a good alliance. But anyone could be fooled, even her father. And to leave everyone she had ever known, and live with a strange man, and lie beneath him, and be ordered about by his family—was it not like dying, in a way? Certainly she wouldn’t be Fadwa al-Hadid anymore. She’d be someone else, another woman entirely. But there was nothing to do about it: she would marry, and soon. It was as certain as the sunrise.
She looked up at a joyful cry from her mother. The men were coming into camp, driving the sheep before them. The sheep stumbled against one another, drowsy from full bellies and a long journey. “A good day,” one of Fadwa’s uncles called. “We couldn’t ask for better grazing.”
Soon the men were sitting down to their dinner, tearing at the bread and cheese. The women served them and then retired to their tent to eat what was left. With her husband safely home, Fatim’s mood improved; she laughed with her sisters-in-law and cooed over the baby at her breast. Fadwa ate silently, and gazed across at the men’s tent, at her father’s solid back.
Later that night, Abu Yusuf drew his daughter aside. “We went by the place you spoke of,” he told her. “I looked hard, but I saw nothing.”
Fadwa nodded, dejected but unsurprised. Already she herself had begun to doubt it.
Abu Yusuf smiled at her downturned face. “Have I told you about the time I saw an entire caravan that wasn’t there? I was about your age. I was out with my sheep one morning, and saw a gigantic caravan come marching down through a pass in the hills. At least a hundred men, coming closer and closer. I could see the men’s eyes, even the breath from the camels’ noses. I turned and ran back home, to make them come see. And I left my sheep behind.”
Fadwa’s eyes widened. This was a carelessness she wouldn’t have believed of him, even as a boy.
“By the time I returned with my father, the caravan was gone without a trace. And most of my sheep had vanished as well. It took all day to hunt them down, and some had gone lame from the rocks.”
“What did your father say?” She was almost afraid to ask. Karim ibn Murhaf al-Hadid had died many years before Fadwa was born, but stories of his severe character were legend in the tribe.
“Oh, at first he said nothing, only whipped me. Then, later, he told me a tale. He said that once when he was a little boy, playing in the women’s tent, he looked out and saw a strange woman dressed all in blue. She was standing just beyond the camp, smiling at him, and holding out her hands. He could hear her calling, asking him to come and play. The girl who was supposed to be watching him had fallen asleep. So he followed the woman out into the desert—alone, in the middle of a summer afternoon.”
Fadwa was astonished. “And he lived!”
“It was a near thing. They didn’t find him for hours, and by then his blood was boiling. It was a long time before he was well again. But he said he would have sworn on his father’s name that the woman was real. And now”—he smiled—“you will have a story to tell your children, when they come running to you and swear that they saw a lake of clear water in a dry valley, or a horde of djinn flying across the sky. You can tell them of the beautiful shining palace you knew to be there, and how your cruel and terrible father refused to believe you.”
She smiled. “You know I won’t say that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Now”—he kissed her forehead—“finish your chores, child.”
He watched as she turned back toward the women’s tent. His smile faltered, then faded. He had not been honest with his daughter. The tales of the caravan and his father’s misadventure were true enough—but earlier that day, driving the sheep along the ridge, he had, for the briefest of moments, been blinded by a shining vision of a palace in the valley below. A blink, and it had disappeared. He’d stared at the empty valley for a long time, telling himself that the sunlight must strike the eye in a particular way at this spot, creating the illusion. Nevertheless, he was shaken. As his daughter had said, it had been no vague, wavering mirage—he’d seen impossible details, spires and battlements and glittering courtyards. And standing a little ways from the open gate, the figure of a man, staring up at him.
6.
It was almost the end of September, but the summer heat lingered without mercy. At midday the streets thinned, and pedestrians congregated under the awnings. The brick and stone of the Lower East Side soaked up the day’s heat and released it again at sundown. The rickety staircases that ran up the backs of the tenements became vertical dormitories as residents dragged their mattresses onto the landings and made camp on the rooftops. The air was a malodorous broth, and all labored to inhale it.
The High Holy Days were near unendurable. The synagogues sat half-empty as many chose to pray at home, where they might at least open a window. Red-faced cantors sang to a few miserable devout. At Yom Kippur, the Sabbath of Sabbaths, not a few congregants fainted where they stood, the prescribed fast having worn away the last of their strength.
For the first Yom Kippur since he became a bar mitzvah, Rabbi Meyer did not fast. Though the elderly were exempted from fasting, the Rabbi had been loath to give it up. The fast was meant to be the culmination of the spiritual work of the High Holy Days, a cleansing and purifying of the soul. This year, however, he had to admit that his body had grown too frail. To fast would be a mark against him, a sin of vanity and a refusal to accept the realities of aging. Hadn’t he once counseled his congregants against this very misdeed? Nonetheless he took no pleasure from his lunch on Yom Kippur, and could not escape the feeling that he was guilty of something.
He was comforted that at least there was plenty to eat—for, to pass her time, the Golem had taken up baking.
It had been the Rabbi’s idea, and he scolded himself for not thinking of it earlier. The notion came to him when he stopped at a bakery one morning and glimpsed a young man at work in the back, rolling and braiding dough for the Sabbath challahs. Loaf after loaf took shape underneath his hands. His quick, automatic movements spoke of the years he’d spent in this very spot, at this very task; and in that moment he seemed to the Rabbi almost a golem himself. Golems did not eat, of course—but why should that keep a golem from becoming a baker?
That afternoon, he brought home a heavy, serious-looking English volume, and gave it to the Golem.
“The Boston Cooking-School Cook Book,” she read, nonplussed. She cracked the tome with trepidation—but to her surprise the book was simple, sober, and clearly written. There was nothing here to confuse her, only patient and consistent instruction. She repeated the names of the recipes to the bemused Rabbi, in English and then in Yiddish, and was astonished when he declared many of them completely alien to him. He had never eaten finnan haddie—a type of fish, apparently—or gnocchi à la romaine, or potatoes Delmonico, or any of a host of complicated-sounding egg dishes. She declared that she would cook a meal for him. Perhaps a roast turkey with sweet potatoes and succotash? Or lobster bisque followed by Porterhouse steaks, with strawberry shortcake for dessert? The Rabbi hastily explained, not without regret, that these dishes were too extravagant for their household—and besides, lobsters were treyf. Perhaps she should start small, and work upward from there. There was nothing he liked more, he said, than a fresh-baked coffee cake. Would that do for a beginning?
And so the Golem ventured alone out of the tenement, and went to the grocer’s at the corner. With money from the Rabbi she bought eggs, sugar, salt, and flour, a few different spices in twists of paper, and a small package of walnut meats. It was the first time she had been truly alone, out in the city, since her arrival. She was growing more accustomed to the neighborhood; she and the Rabbi had taken to walking together a few afternoons a week, the Rabbi having decided that the Golem’s need to experience the world far outweighed whatever gossip might result. Still, he kept a close eye on her at all times. He’d begun to have a recurring nightmare of losing her in a crowd, seeking her in a growing panic, and finally glimpsing her tall form in the middle of a mob shouting for her destruction.
The Golem would sense these nightmares, of course, not as clearly as waking thought, but clear enough to know that the Rabbi was afraid for her, and afraid of her as well. It saddened her deeply, but she tried not to think on it. To dwell on his fears, and her own loneliness, would do no one good.
She baked the coffee cake, following the directions with fervent exactitude, and was successful in her first attempt. She was pleasantly surprised at the ease of the chore, and at the almost magical way that the oven transformed the thick batter into something else entirely, something solid, warm, and fragrant. The Rabbi ate two slices with his morning tea and declared it one of the best cakes he’d ever tasted.
She went out and bought more ingredients that afternoon. The next morning, the Rabbi awoke to find a bakery’s worth of pastries on the parlor table. There were muffins and cookies, a phalanx of biscuits, and a towering stack of pancakes. A dense, strongly spiced loaf was something called gingerbread.
“I had no idea one could bake so much in an evening!” He said it lightly, but she saw his dismay.
“You wish I hadn’t,” she said.
“Well”—he smiled—“perhaps not so much. I’m only one man, with one stomach. It would be a shame to let this all turn stale. And we must not be so exorbitant, you and I. This is a week’s worth of food.”
“I’m so sorry. Of course, I didn’t think—” Shame filled her, and she turned from the table. She’d been so proud of what she’d done! And it had felt so good to work, to spend all night in the kitchen measuring and mixing, standing before the little oven that spilled its heat into the already sultry room. And now she could barely look at her handiwork. “I do so many things wrongly!” she burst out.
“My dear, don’t be so hard on yourself,” the Rabbi said. “These concerns are all new to you. I’ve been living with them for decades!” A thought came to him. “Besides, none of this need go to waste. Would you be willing to give some of it away? I have a nephew, Michael, my sister’s son. He runs a hostel for new immigrants, and has many mouths to feed.”
She wanted to protest: she’d made these for the Rabbi, not for strangers. But she saw that he was offering her a gracious way to salvage her mistake, and that he hoped she would take it.
“Of course,” she said. “I’d be happy to.”
He smiled. “Good. In fact, let’s take them together. It’s time you had a conversation with someone besides a butcher or grocer.”
“You think I’m ready?”
“Yes, I do.”
Excited, nervous, she struggled to stand still. “Your nephew. What sort of man is he? What should I say to him? What will he think of me?”
The Rabbi smiled and raised his hands, as though to hold back her tide of questions. “First, Michael is a good boy—I should say a good man, he’s nearing thirty. I respect and admire his work, though we don’t see eye to eye. I only wish—” He paused, but then remembered that the Golem would certainly see some part of it. Better to explain, than leave her with a vague, confusing picture. “We used to be closer, Michael and I. My sister died when he was young, and my wife and I brought him up. For many years, he was as close as a son. But then—well, certain things were said between us. A sadly typical argument between the old and the young. The damage was never quite repaired. We see each other less often, now.”
There was more to it, the Golem saw—not an evasion on the Rabbi’s part, but an unspoken depth of detail. Not for the first time she felt the vast chasm of experience between them: he, who had lived for seven decades, and she, with barely a month’s worth of memories.
“As for what you shall say to each other,” the Rabbi continued in a lighter tone, “it needn’t be a long conversation. You can explain what the different pastries are, at least. No doubt he will ask you where you come from, and how long you’ve been in the city. Perhaps we should rehearse a story. You can tell him you’re a young widow from near Danzig, and that I’m acting as your social worker. Close enough to the truth, in a manner of speaking.” He smiled, but with a hint of sorrow; and she knew he was telling her something he didn’t quite believe.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You shouldn’t have to lie to your nephew. Not for my sake.”
The Rabbi was silent for a moment. Then he said, “My dear, I am beginning to realize that there are many things that I will need to do—that I must do, for your sake. But they are my decisions. You must allow me to regret a small lie made in the service of a larger good. And you yourself must learn to become comfortable doing the same.” He paused, and then said, “I don’t yet know if you’ll ever be able to live a normal life, among others. But you must know that to do so, you would have to lie to everyone in your acquaintance. You must tell no one your true nature, ever. It is a burden and a responsibility that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”
A heavy silence fell.
“It had occurred to me,” the Golem said finally. “Perhaps not as clearly as that. I think I didn’t want to believe it.”
The Rabbi’s eyes were wet; but when he spoke his voice was steady. “Perhaps with time, and practice, it will become easier. And I will help you, as best I can.” He turned away, whisked a hand over his eyes; when he turned back, he was smiling. “But now, let us talk of something more cheerful. If I’m to introduce you to my nephew, I must tell him your name.”
She frowned. “I don’t have one.”
“My point exactly. It’s far past time that you were named. Would you like to choose a name for yourself?”
She thought a moment. “No.”
The Rabbi was taken aback. “But you must have a name.”
“I know.” She smiled. “But I’d like you to choose it for me.”
The Rabbi wanted to object: he’d hoped that the act of choosing a name would help her toward independence. But then he admonished himself. She was still like a child in so many ways, and one did not expect a child to name itself. That honor fell to the parent. In this, she had grasped the meaning of the thing better than he.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ve always liked the name Chava for a girl. It was my grandmother’s name, and I was very fond of her.”
“Chava,” the Golem said. The ch was a soft and rolling sound in the back of the throat, the ava like a spoken sigh. She repeated it quietly to herself, testing it while the Rabbi looked on, amused.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and she did.
“Then it’s yours.” He raised his hands over her, and closed his eyes. “Blessed One who protected our forefathers and led us out of bondage, watch over your daughter Chava. May her days be marked by peace and prosperity. May she be an aid, a comfort, and a protector to her people. May she have the wisdom and courage to see her way forward on the path that you have laid before her. Be this the will of the Almighty.”
And the Golem whispered, “Amen.”
All things considered, it was not one of Michael Levy’s better days.
He stood behind his paper-strewn desk with the harried air of a man reacting to a dozen crises at once. In his hand was a letter informing him, with regret, that the ladies who volunteered to clean on Sundays would no longer be doing so; their Ladies’ Workers League had schismed and then dissolved, and with it their Charitable Action Committee. Ten minutes earlier, the head housekeeper had informed him that a number of that week’s residents had arrived with dysentery, and they were going through bed linens at an alarming rate. And, as always, there was the almost physical pressure of the nearly two hundred new immigrants who bunked in the dormitories that hung above his head. And as long as they were under his roof, Michael was responsible for their welfare.
The Hebrew Sheltering House was a way station where men fresh from the Old World could pause, and gather their wits, before jumping headfirst into the gaping maw of the New. All were allowed to stay five days at the Sheltering House, during which they were fed and clothed and given a cot to sleep on. At the end of those five days they had to depart. Some moved in with distant relatives, or took the peddler’s path; others were recruited by the factories and slept in filthy flophouse hammocks for five cents a night. When he could, Michael tried to steer the men away from the worst of the sweatshops.