The Golem and the Jinni (2 page)

Her face was wide and heart shaped, her eyes set far apart. They were closed; he could not tell their color. The nose was small and curved under at the tip, above full lips. Her hair was brown and had a slight wave, and was cut to brush her shoulders.

Tentative, half-believing, he placed a hand on her cool shoulder. “It looks like skin. It
feels
like skin.”

“It’s clay,” said the old man.

“How did you do this?”

The old man only smiled, and said nothing.

“And the hair, and eyes? The fingernails? Are they clay too?”

“No, those are real enough,” Schaalman said, blandly innocent. Rotfeld remembered handing over the case of money, and wondering what sort of supplies the old man needed to buy. He shivered and decided not to think about it again.

They dressed the clay woman and carefully lifted her heavy body into the crate. Her hair tangled about her face as they arranged her, and Rotfeld waited until the old man’s back was turned before gently smoothing it into place again.

Schaalman found a small piece of paper and wrote on it the two necessary commands—one to bring her to life, and one to destroy her. He folded the paper twice, and placed it in an oilskin envelope. On the envelope he wrote
COMMANDS FOR THE GOLEM
, and then handed it to Rotfeld. His client was eager to wake her, but the old man was against it. “She might be disoriented for a time,” he said. “And the ship will be too crowded. If someone realized what she was, they’d throw you both overboard.” Reluctantly, Rotfeld agreed to wait until they reached America; and they nailed the lid on the crate, sealing her away.

The old man poured them each a finger of schnapps from a dusty bottle. “To your golem,” he said, raising his glass.

“To my golem,” Rotfeld echoed, and downed the schnapps. It was a triumphant moment, marred only by his persistent stomachache. He’d always had a delicate constitution, and the stress of the last few weeks had ruined his digestion. Ignoring his stomach, he helped the old man lift the crate into the dray-cart, and then led the horse away. The old man waved after the departing Rotfeld, as though seeing off a pair of newlyweds. “I wish you joy of her!” he called, and his cackle echoed through the trees.

The ship set sail from Danzig, and made its stop in Hamburg without incident. Two nights later Rotfeld lay in his narrow bunk, the oilskin envelope labeled
COMMANDS FOR THE GOLEM
tucked away in a pocket. He felt like a child who’d been given a present and then instructed not to open it. It would have been easier if he could’ve slept, but the pain in his stomach had grown into a lump of misery on the right side of his abdomen. He felt slightly feverish. The cacophony of steerage surrounded him: a hundred diverse snores, the hiccupping sobs of babies, an occasional retch as the ship rode from swell to trough.

He turned over, squirming against the pain, and reflected: surely the old man’s advice was overcautious. If she was as obedient as promised, there’d be no harm in waking her, just to see. Then he could command her to lie in the crate until they reached America.

But what if she didn’t work properly? What if she didn’t wake at all, but only lay there, a lump of clay in the shape of a woman? It struck him for the first time that he’d seen no proof that Schaalman could do what he’d promised. Panicked, he fished the envelope from his pocket, withdrew from it the scrap of paper. Gibberish, meaningless words, a jumble of Hebrew letters! What a fool he’d been!

He swung his legs over the side of his bunk, and fetched a kerosene lamp off its nail. Pressing a hand to his side, he hurried through the maze of bunks to the stairwell and down to the hold.

It took him nearly two hours to find the crate, two hours of picking his way through stacks of suitcases and boxes bound with twine. His stomach burned, and cold sweat dripped into his eyes. Finally he moved aside a rolled-up carpet, and there it was: his crate, and in it his bride.

He found a crowbar, pried the nails from the crate, and yanked off the lid. Heart pounding, he pulled the paper from his pocket, and carefully sounded out the command labeled
To Wake the Golem
.

He held his breath, and waited.

Slowly the Golem came to life.

First to wake were her senses. She felt the roughness of wood under her fingertips, the cold, damp air on her skin. She sensed the movement of the boat. She smelled mildew, and the tang of seawater.

She woke a little more, and knew she had a body. The fingertips that felt the wood were her own. The skin that the air chilled was her skin. She moved a finger, to see if she could.

She heard a man nearby, breathing. She knew his name and who he was. He was her master, her entire purpose; she was his golem, bound to his will. And right now he wanted her to open her eyes.

The Golem opened her eyes.

Her master was kneeling above her in the dim light. His face and hair were drenched with sweat. With one hand he braced himself on the edge of the crate; the other was pressed at his stomach.

“Hello,” Rotfeld whispered. An absurd shyness had tightened his voice. “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re my master. Your name is Otto Rotfeld.” Her voice was clear and natural, if a bit deep.

“That’s right,” he said, as though to a child. “And do you know who
you
are?”

“A golem.” She paused, considering. “I don’t have a name.”

“Not yet,” Rotfeld said, smiling. “I’ll have to think of one for you.”

Suddenly he winced. The Golem didn’t need to ask why, for she could feel it as well, a dull ache that echoed his. “You’re in pain,” she said, concerned.

“It’s nothing,” Rotfeld said. “Sit up.”

She sat up in the crate, and looked about. The kerosene lamp cast a feeble light that roamed with the ship’s rocking. Long shadows loomed and retreated across stacks of luggage and boxes. “Where are we?” she asked.

“On a ship, crossing the ocean,” Rotfeld said. “We’re on our way to America. But you must be very careful. There are many people on this ship, and they’d be frightened if they knew what you were. They might even try to harm you. You’ll need to lie here very still until we reach land.”

The ship leaned sharply, and the Golem clutched at the edges of the crate.

“It’s all right,” Rotfeld whispered. He lifted a shaking hand to stroke her hair. “You’re safe here, with me,” he said. “My golem.”

Suddenly he gasped, bent his head to the deck, and began to retch. The Golem watched with chagrin. “Your pain is growing worse,” she said.

Rotfeld coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I told you,” he said, “it’s nothing.” He tried to stand, but staggered, and fell to his knees. A wave of panic hit him as he began to realize that something was truly wrong.

“Help me,” he whispered.

The command struck the Golem like an arrow. Swiftly she rose from her crate, bent over Rotfeld, and lifted him as though he weighed no more than a boy. With her master in her arms, she wove her way around the boxes, up the narrow staircase, and out of the hold.

A commotion broke out at the aft end of steerage. It spread down the deck, waking the sleepers, who grumbled and turned over in their bunks. A crowd began to grow around a cot near the hatch, where a man had collapsed, his face gray in the lantern-light. A call threaded its way from row to row: was there a doctor nearby?

One soon appeared, in pajamas and an overcoat. The crowd parted for him as he made his way to the cot. Hovering next to the sick man was a tall woman in a brown dress who watched, wide eyed, as the doctor undid the young man’s shirt and pulled it back. Carefully the doctor prodded Rotfeld’s abdomen, and was rewarded with a short scream.

The Golem lunged forward and snatched the man’s hand away. The doctor pulled back, shocked.

“It’s all right,” the man on the cot whispered. “He’s a doctor. He’s here to help.” He reached up, and clasped her hand.

Warily the doctor felt Rotfeld’s abdomen again, one eye on the woman. “It’s his appendix,” he announced. “We must get him to the ship’s surgeon, quickly.”

The doctor grabbed one of Rotfeld’s arms and pulled him to standing. Others rushed to help, and together the knot of men moved through the hatch, Rotfeld hanging half-delirious at its center. The woman followed close behind.

The ship’s surgeon was the sort of man who did not appreciate being roused in the middle of the night, especially to cut open some nameless peasant from steerage. One look at the man writhing weakly on his operating table, and he wondered if it was worth the trouble. Judging by the advanced state of the appendicitis and the high fever, the appendix had likely already burst, flooding the man’s belly with poisons. The surgery alone might finish him off. After delivering their burden, the foreigners who’d brought the man had hovered by the hatchway, unsure of themselves, and then left without a word of English.

Well, there was nothing for it. He’d have to operate. He called down for his assistant to be roused and began laying out his instruments. He was searching for the ether jar when suddenly the hatch was wrenched open behind him. It was a woman, tall and dark-haired, wearing only a thin brown shift against the cold Atlantic air. She rushed to the side of the man on the table, looking near panicked. His wife or sweetheart, he supposed.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask that you speak English,” he said; and of course she only stared, uncomprehending. “I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here. No women permitted in the surgery. You’ll have to leave.” He pointed at the door.

That, at least, got through: she shook her head vehemently and began to expostulate in Yiddish. “Look here,” the surgeon began, and took her elbow to steer her out. But it was as though he’d grabbed hold of a lamppost. The woman would not move, only loomed over him, solid and suddenly gigantic, a Valkyrie come to life.

He dropped her arm as though it had scalded him. “Have it your way,” he muttered, disconcerted. He busied himself with the ether jar, and tried to ignore the bizarre presence behind his shoulder.

The hatch opened again, and a young man fell in, looking roughly wakened. “Doctor, I’m—good lord!”