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.
Michael Levy was twenty-seven years old. He had the sort of pink, wide-cheeked face that was cursed to perpetual youth. Only his eyes showed the years: they were deeply lined and shadowed, by reading and fatigue. He was taller than his uncle Avram, and something of a scarecrow, the result of never slowing down and eating a proper meal. His friends liked to joke that with his ink-stained cuffs and tired eyes he looked more like a scholar than a social worker. He would reply that it was only fitting, as his work was more of an education than a classroom could ever offer.
There was pride, and defensiveness, in his answer. His teachers, his aunt and uncle, his friends, even his all-but-absent father: all had expected him to go to university. And they’d been shocked and dismayed when young Michael announced his plan to dedicate himself to social work, and the betterment of the lives around him.
“Of course that’s all good and noble,” a friend told him. “Which one of us isn’t committed to the same thing? But you’ve got a first-rate mind—use that to help people. Why let it go to waste?” The friend in question wrote for one of the Socialist Labor Party papers. Every week his name ran above a moving paean to the Working Man, each turning on a scene of brotherly solidarity that he’d happened to witness—usually, conveniently enough, on the day before his deadline.
Michael stood firm, if somewhat wounded. His friends wrote their articles, they went to marches and listened to speeches, they debated the future of Marxism over coffee and strudel—but Michael heard an airy emptiness in their rhetoric. He didn’t accuse his friends of taking an easy road, but neither could he follow them. He was too honest a soul; he had never learned to deceive himself.
The only one who understood was his uncle Avram. It was the other change in Michael’s life that the Rabbi couldn’t countenance.
“Where is it written that a man must turn his back on his faith to do good in the world?” the Rabbi had asked, staring in horror at his nephew’s bare head, at the neat sideburns where sidelocks had once hung. “Who taught you this? Those philosophers you read?”
“Yes, and I agree with them. Not with everything, maybe, but at least that as long as we keep to our old beliefs, we’ll never find our place in the modern world.”
His uncle laughed. “Yes, this wonderful modern world that has rid us of all ills, of poverty and corruption! What fools we are, not to cast our shackles aside!”
“Of course there’s much that still needs changing! But it does no good to chain ourselves to a backward—” He stopped. The word had slipped from his mouth.
His uncle’s expression grew even darker. Michael saw he had two options: recant and apologize, or own what he’d said.
“I’m sorry, Uncle, but it’s how I feel,” said Michael. “I look at what we call faith, and all I see is superstition and subjugation. All religions, not just Judaism. They create false divisions, and enslave us to fantasies, when we need to focus on the here and now.”
His uncle’s face was stone. “You believe me to be an instrument of subjugation.”
The instinct to protest was on his lips—of course not! Not you, Uncle!—but he held back. He didn’t want to add hypocrisy to his list of offenses.
“Yes,” he said. “I wish I felt otherwise. I know how much good you’ve done—how could I forget all those visits to the sick? And the time the Rosens’ store burned down? But good deeds should come from our natural instinct toward brotherhood, not from tribalism! What about the Italians who owned the butcher’s shop next to the Rosens? What did we do for them?”
“I can’t take care of everyone!” snapped the Rabbi. “So perhaps I’m guilty of only looking after my own kind. That too is a natural instinct, whatever your philosophers might say.”
“But we must grow beyond it! Why reinforce our differences, and keep ancient laws, and never know the joy of breaking bread with our neighbors?”
“Because we are Jews!” his uncle shouted. “And that is how we live! Our laws remind us of who we are, and we gain strength from them! You, who are so eager to throw away your past—what will you replace it with? What will you use to keep the evil in Man from outbalancing the good?”
“Laws that apply to everyone,” said Michael. “That put all men on equal footing. I’m no anarchist, Uncle, if that’s what worries you!”
“But an atheist? Is that what you are now?”
He could see no way around it. “Yes, I think I am,” he said, looking away to hide from the pain in his uncle’s eyes. For a long, miserable time after, Michael felt he might as well have struck the man across the face.
They’d been slow to reconcile. Even now, years later, they only saw each other once a month or so. They kept to cordial small talk and avoided opinions on painful subjects. The Rabbi congratulated Michael on each success and spoke consoling words at his defeats—which were many, for Michael’s job was far from easy. When the previous supervisor, who’d insisted on only taking money from Jewish Socialist groups, had quit, the Sheltering House was weeks away from shuttering for lack of funds. Michael was invited to accept the position and saw for himself the many dozens of men in their dormitories. The weave of their clothes, the cut of their beards, and their vaguely bewildered air all marked them as fresh from the boat. These were the most vulnerable of the immigrants, most likely to be duped or swindled. He reviewed the House’s ledgers, which were in chaos. He accepted the position, then swallowed his pride and went to the local congregations and Jewish councils, begging for lifeblood. In exchange, advertisements for Sabbath services were posted on the notice board in the hallway, next to the announcements of party meetings.
He still believed what he’d told his uncle. He attended no synagogue, said no prayers, and hoped that one day all men would lose their need for religion. But he knew that sweeping change only happened slowly, and he understood the value of pragmatism.
The Rabbi saw the religious advertisements when he visited, but said nothing. He too seemed to regret the rift between them. They were practically each other’s only relations—Michael’s father having long since decamped for Chicago, leaving behind a dozen frustrated creditors—and in a neighborhood of sprawling families, Michael felt it keenly. So when the Rabbi came knocking on his office door that afternoon, Michael was truly glad to see him.
“Uncle! What brings you here?” The men embraced, a bit formally. Michael had grown used to his own uncovered head, the lack of fringe beneath his vest; but he still felt naked in the man’s presence. Then he caught sight of the woman in the door’s shadow.
“I’d like you to meet a new friend,” said the Rabbi. “Michael, this is Chava. She’s newly arrived in New York.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” the woman said. She was tall, taller than him by an inch or two. For a moment she seemed a dark and looming statue; but then she moved forward into the room, and was merely a woman in a plain shirtwaist, holding a cardboard box.
Michael realized he was staring; he caught himself. “Likewise, of course! How long have you been here?”
“Only a month.” She gave a small embarrassed smile, as if apologizing for her recent arrival.
“Chava’s husband died on the voyage,” his uncle said. “She has no family in America. I’ve become her social worker, after a fashion.”
Michael’s face fell. “My God, how terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” It was a whisper.
There was a moment of silence, awkward with the weight of her revealed widowhood. Then the woman seemed to notice the box in her hands. “I made these,” she said, a bit abruptly. “They were meant for your uncle, but I made too many. He suggested I bring them to you, and you could give them to the men who live here.” She held out the box to Michael.
He opened it, unleashing a heavenly scent of butter and spices. The box was full of pastries, all different kinds: butter-horns, almond macaroons, spice cookies, sweet buns, gingersnaps. “You made all of these?” he said, incredulous. “Are you a baker?”
The woman hesitated, but then smiled. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Well, the men will certainly appreciate these. We’ll make sure everyone gets a piece.” He closed the box, fighting temptation. The almond macaroons in particular were making his mouth water; they’d been his favorite since childhood. “Thank you, Chava. This will be a great treat for them. I’ll take them straight to the kitchen.”
“You should try a macaroon,” she said.
He smiled. “I will. They’re my favorite, actually.”
“I—” She seemed to catch hold of herself, then said, “I’m glad.”
“Chava,” the Rabbi said, “perhaps you might wait for me in the parlor.”
The woman nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said to Michael.
“And you as well,” he replied. “And thank you, truly. On behalf of all the men.”
She smiled, and withdrew into the hallway. For such a tall woman, she moved quite silently.
“My God, what a tragedy for her!” Michael said when she was out of earshot. “I’m surprised she stayed in New York, instead of going back home.”
“There was little there for her,” said his uncle. “In a way, she had no choice.”
Michael frowned. “She isn’t living with you, is she?”
“No, no,” his uncle said quickly. “She’s staying with a former congregant, for now. An old widow. But I must find her a more permanent living situation, and a job as well.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult. She seems capable, if quiet.”
“Yes, she’s very capable. But at the same time she’s almost painfully innocent. It makes me afraid for her. She’ll need to learn how to protect herself, to live in this city.”
“At least she’ll have you to look out for her.”
His uncle smiled grimly. “Yes. For now.”
An idea had been forming in Michael’s mind; finally he gave it his attention. “You say you’re looking for a job for her?”
“Yes. Not a sweatshop, if I can help it.”
“Are you still in touch with Moe Radzin?”
“We’re cordial enough to say hello on the street, I suppose.” He frowned. “You think there might be a job for Chava at Radzin’s?”
“I was just there yesterday. The place was in chaos, and Moe was having fits. One of his assistants ran off to God knows where, and another is leaving to take care of her sister.” He smiled and pointed at the box. “If those taste as good as they look, then the bakery could use her. You should go talk to him.”
“Yes,” the Rabbi said slowly. “It’s a possibility. But Moe Radzin . . .”
“I know. He’s just as sour and unhappy as ever. But he’s fair, at least, and generous when he wants to be. The House gets all our bread from him, at discount. And his employees seem to respect him. Well, except for Thea.”
The Rabbi snorted. Thea Radzin was a formidable complainer, the sort of woman who began conversations with a list of her ailments. Among her husband’s female employees she worked as a matchmaker in reverse, listing their defects to any man who showed an interest.
Michael pressed on, feeling obscurely that if he could help his uncle, some of his guilt would be unburdened. “There are worse bosses than Moe Radzin. And perhaps he’ll feel some obligation to treat Chava well, if he knows you’re watching out for her.”
“Perhaps. I’ll speak to him. Thank you, Michael.” He squeezed his nephew’s shoulder; and Michael, with a burst of concern, saw that his uncle had never looked so worn and tired, not even when dealing with the stresses of a congregation. He had always worked himself far too hard. And now, instead of resting, he’d taken the welfare of a young widow upon himself. Michael wanted to suggest that there were any number of women’s groups that could look after her. But the Jewish women’s charities, he knew, were even more strapped than the men’s.
He said good-bye to his uncle and sat back at his desk. Even with his misgivings about his uncle’s health, the brief glimpse of the woman had intrigued him. She’d seemed quiet and shy, but the way she’d looked at him had been unnerving. She’d stared directly into his eyes, unblinking, a deep and candid gaze. He understood what his uncle meant about her needing to protect herself, but at the same time Michael felt it was he, not she, who had been laid bare.
The Sheltering House’s parlor was surprisingly spacious, running the length of the dim front hall. The Golem stood in the corner next to a dilapidated wing chair. It was now midmorning, and many of the men in the dormitories had left already, to look for work or a place to pray. But close to sixty remained, and the weight of their worrying minds pressed down on the Golem from above. It reminded her powerfully of her first night, on the Baltika, how the passengers’ fears and desires had been amplified by the strange surroundings. These were the same wild hopes, the same apprehensions. It hadn’t been as bad in Michael’s office; she’d been too focused on the challenge of speaking to a stranger, and not giving herself away.
She was beginning to fidget. How much longer would the Rabbi be? Against her will she glanced up at the ceiling. Up there was hunger, loneliness, fear of failure, and loud wishes for success, of home, of a gigantic platter of roast beef—and one man who stood in line for the W.C., wanting only a newspaper to read while he waited . . .
She glanced at the parlor table. An issue of Forverts lay there, waiting to be claimed.
“No,” she said to herself, louder than she had meant. She left the parlor and began to pace the long, dim corridor. Her hands gripped her elbows. She would knock on Michael’s door, tell the Rabbi they needed to leave, that she didn’t feel well—
To her relief, the office door opened, and the Rabbi and Michael stepped out, saying a few last words to each other. The Rabbi saw the Golem’s strained expression, and his good-bye grew more hurried. At last they were walking down the dark wooden hall to the rectangle of sunlight at its end.
“Are you all right?” asked the Rabbi when they were on the street.
“The men,” she began, and found she couldn’t go on: her thoughts were too quick, too choppy. She struggled to relax. “They all want so much,” she got out at last.
“Was it too much for you?”
“No. Nearly. If we’d stayed.”
The silent clamor of the Sheltering House faded behind her, was swallowed into the diffuse buzz of the city. Her mind began to slow. She shook out her fingers, feeling the tension ebb. “There was a man, upstairs,” she said. “He wanted a newspaper. I saw one in the parlor, and nearly brought it to him.”
“That would have been quite a surprise for him.” He tried to speak lightly. “You were able to hold back, though.”
“Yes. But it was difficult.”
“You are improving, I think. Though you nearly gave yourself away, with the macaroons.”
“I know.” She cringed at the memory, and the Rabbi smiled. “Chava,” he said, “it’s a cruel irony that you have the most difficulty precisely when those around you are on their best behavior. I suspect you would find it much easier if we all cast politeness aside, and took whatever we pleased.”
She considered. “It would be easier, at first. But then you might hurt each other to gain your wishes, and grow afraid of each other, and still go on wanting.”
Approval raised his eyebrows. “You’re becoming quite the student of human nature. Do you think you have improved enough to go out regularly on your own—say, to hold down a job?”
Apprehension clutched at her, mingled with excitement. “I don’t know. I’m not sure how I would know, except through trying.”
“Michael tells me that Radzin’s Bakery is looking for new workers. I know Moe Radzin from years ago, and I thought I might try to get you a position there. I should be able to secure an interview with him, at least.”
“A bakery?”
“It would be hard work, and long hours surrounded by strangers. You’d have to take constant care.”
She tried to imagine it: working all day with her hands, in an apron and a starched cap. Stacking the neat rows of loaves, their brown undersides still dusty with flour, and knowing that she had made them.
“I’d like to try,” she said.