The Golem of Hollywood (39 page)

Jaws opening and closing, a whisper of hard exoskeleton.

Breathing hot sweet breath into his mouth.

Then it backed away, regretfully, never taking its eyes off him until it turned and roared off, heading straight for Norton.

She heard it coming, screamed and ducked. The beetle cleared her by several feet, hitting the window and punching a hole clean through, disappearing into the night, one more black star among many.

T
he marriage of Isaac Katz and Feigele Loew takes place in the Alt-Neu on a Wednesday afternoon, so that the union will be consummated that night and into the next morning, capturing Thursday's inherent blessing of fruitfulness.

On the platform, beneath the canopy, stands the core of the wedding party, the couple and their fathers and the witnesses, splendid Mordecai Meisel and retiring David Ganz, surrounded by male siblings and in-laws. Benefactors, intimates, and intellectual lights grace the pews, Chayim Wichs the sexton and Jacob Bassevi the financier, delegations of scholars from Krakow and Ostrog and Lvov. The Emperor has sent a letter of congratulations, gilt-bordered, calligraphed beautifully. The roll of parchment has been given its own seat of honor, on a red silk pillow, in the front row.

In the cramped women's section, the mothers and female relatives take turns at the viewing portals. The synagogue is packed so densely the mortar holding the building together seems to extrude.

And in the doorway, Yankele the Giant keeps the masses at bay.

From near and far they have come, decked in their finest to show their love and respect. Dozens upon dozens swarm up to the roof and hang over the edge in hope of catching a glimpse of the action through the rosette. Hundreds upon hundreds wait outside, ears pressed to stone walls. Thousands upon thousands more clog the streets around the Alt-Neu, old and young, sick and well, bitter enemies pressed chest to back, straining with cupped ears for the tinkle of broken glass that will signal the completion of the ceremony.

When it comes, the melody can be heard as far away as Sattelgasse, and countless voices roar their approval.

Mazal tov!

Nine separate bands of musicians, temporarily freed from the ban on public performance, strike up nine separate songs. People stamp their feet and whistle and clap and sing, a raucous, delirious explosion that redoubles as Yankele steps forth to clear the way so that the couple may stand in the threshold to wave at their adoring public before being ushered back inside to be sequestered in the chamber of privacy.

Food, drink, smiles: for once, nothing is in short supply. Meisel and Bassevi have seen to that. The ghetto has been transformed into an enormous outdoor reception hall, tables stretching the length of Rabinergasse. Everyone is invited to partake, and they do, emptying platters of spiced carrots and stuffed derma, jellied calves' legs, and potato dumplings. Whole stuffed river pikes sparkle atop pungent snow-heaps of horseradish. The feast replenishes itself like a spring. Children gobble honeyed
and tear off chunks of rosewater marzipan and sneak dripping handfuls of cherries stewed in beer.

Following their fifteen minutes of solitude, the couple emerge once more, and the crowd roars again and wipes its mouth on its sleeve and the dancing begins.

Golden chairs are placed on a platform. The consolidated army of musicians, having somehow managed to agree on a single song, begins to play furiously, whipping up a vortex of flying beards, black coats, shoes kicked off, and feet flung skyward. Chazkiel the Jester marshals his troupe of clowns; acrobats somersault and build human towers four levels high, juggle fruit and fire and glass.

Enthroned at the eye of the melee, Feigele and Isaac applaud each feat, grinning like fools, grinning at each other.

More? More!

It is holy revelry, for there is no good deed more prized than cavorting before the bride and bringing her joy. Hidden talents blossom. Everyone knows Yomtov Gluck can fix a wagon. Who knew he could walk on his hands, too? Who knew Gershom Samsa could do the bottle dance?

Leading the way is Rebbe himself, who repeatedly leaps to the front of the pack to do a funny little hopping maneuver that gives Feigele squealing fits. Heaving, red-faced, the great man returns to his chair long enough to catch his breath, and then he's up again, swinging his arms with abandon, late into the night.

More!

Doors unlocked and bonfires raging and everyone drunk, the ghetto is at its most vulnerable. Yet Rebbe has decided that there will be no patrol tonight. It would ruin the mood. To prove his point, he cited Scripture.

God protects the simple, Yankele.

Old habits die hard. While the party rages, she stalks the fringes of the crowd, rubbing the knot of her tongue against the roof of her mouth—as has become her habit—parsing the many unfamiliar faces. Most ignore her, caught up in the celebration. A few stare fixedly at the ground as she draws near, whispering once she has passed.

Look at the size of him.

They think she can't hear them. The clamor is tremendous. But her senses, once dull as soap, have grown powerfully acute. She can stand in the courtyard behind Rebbe's house and focus her attention on the windows of the house of study and eavesdrop on Talmudic debates. She can track an insect across the sky on a foggy night.

And other, unexpected changes have begun to come about.

Auras: she sees them everywhere now, on everyone, a little brighter each day. It comforts her to know that other colors exist besides gray—rose and sapphire and cream and earth, desire in all its infinite, subtle divisions.

Who loves, and who loves unrequited. Who hates, and whose hatred is ingrown.

Envious neighbors and jealous spouses and fickle children. The naughty pleasure of innovation. The bottomless misery that fuels braggadocio.

Every individual glows uniquely, and now, as humanity floods the streets, she sates herself with its dazzling, unimaginable spectacle.

Reaching the northern end of Rabinergasse, she cranes over the partition that divides the men's party from that of the women. For any other man, this would constitute an intolerable breach of modesty, but everyone knows that Yankele the Giant is simpleminded. Never in a million years would they imagine him subject to carnal lust.

Dry-eyed, the Rebbetzin sits, clapping her hands in time to the distant music. She appears to have made her peace with the match. Still, it can't be easy, watching one child replace another. She is flanked by her daughters and daughter-in-law. A chair has been left open in Leah's memory.

She catches Perel's eye, and they communicate silently through the smoke and noise.

“Yankele!”

Chayim Wichs is tugging at the hem of her coat.

“Rebbe is asking for you!”

The Rebbetzin smiles and raises a hand.
Go. I'm all right.

She allows Wichs to drag her to the center of the dancing circle, where Rebbe waits with his arms out. She clasps his hands, taking great care to be gentle, and they turn in a circle of their own. He's huffing and puffing, perspiration streaming down his long, lean face, but when she tries to slow down, he pulls her closer, presses his body to hers, rocking against her, murmuring into her shirt, “Don't let me go. Don't ever let me go,” and she hears the weakness in his voice and realizes that he's not sweating. He's crying.

And it pains her to know that she cannot reflect his love back to him. She raises her head and stares out, hating herself, and that is when she sees the men.

There are three of them.

Three variations on tall, the middle one enormous, towering above his companions, above everyone—rising nearly to her level. Gaunt as a
reed, long-eyed in the firelight, he sports tufts of white hair above his ears. Wind ripples a rough-spun robe more suited to a cave-dwelling hermit than to a man of urban Prague.

The men with him are like two burlap sacks stuffed with potatoes. The dark one grimaces and shifts. The mottled red cheeks of his counterpart bunch in a secretive smile.

You'd think that three strange giants would attract a certain amount of attention, but nobody else appears to notice them. Standing near the rear of the crowd, they resemble a kind of human orchard. Yet they are not human. They cannot be. They have no auras. Amid the riot of color created by the partygoers, they hover in a chill vacuum, pitiless and tranquil, and the sight of them fills her with horror, drawing the binding around her tongue tighter, and tighter, threatening to cut the flesh in two pieces, like a wire through clay.

They're watching her.

“That's enough, now, Yankele, enough, please.” Rebbe's voice calls her back to herself. He releases her from his embrace and beckons her to kneel. She does so reluctantly. Her back is to the men, and she feels their long invisible shadows on her.

Rebbe places his hands on her head. For barely a moment his gaze flicks over her shoulder and his face tautens with apprehension.

He sees them, too.

He smiles. “It's all right, my child.”

The blessing streams from his lips.

May God make you as Ephraim and Menasheh.

May God bless you and guard you.

May God light up His face to you and be gracious to you.

May God lift His face to you and establish for you peace.

He kisses her on the forehead. “Good boy.”

Warmth permeates her, cradling the space where her heart ought to be.

The musicians strike up the
mezinke
. Chazkiel elbows forth wielding
a broom, which he thrusts into Rebbe's hands. She rises to clear out of the way, searching the crowd for the tall men. They're nowhere.

—

“I
WON
'
T
LIE
,” P
EREL
SAYS
. “I'm glad it's over.”

A week and a half after the wedding, life has returned to normal. In the wake of the frenzy, the streets feel eerily vacant, the filth more pronounced than usual. Residual heat raises a scummy fog off the river; it oozes in the twilight as she and the Rebbetzin return from the riverbank bearing a fresh load of clay.

“Don't get me wrong. I'm happy for her. You know that.”

She nods.

“I woke up this morning and the house was so quiet. Yudl was already gone, and I lay there, waiting for Feigie's footsteps. The silliest thing is that I wasn't longing for her as she is. I was thinking about the sound her feet made when she was a baby. It's ridiculous, it's weak, I can't help it. I think that's my right, don't you? I raised her. Twenty-nine years I've been raising children. I think I deserve a little time to pity myself.”

She nods, careful not to spill the mud.
I know.

“I know,” Perel says, “it's not as if she moved to another city.” She laughs. “Well, enough of that. We've got work to do. I promised Feigie I'd finish making her new dishes. No reason to panic yet, we'll get it done. Here's what we'll do: we'll go in shifts. Every circuit, you stop in and collect what I've done and bring it to the blacksmith for baking. We'll work through the night if we have to. Does that sound good? We'll stop at the house first to refill the shed.”

They turn the corner, onto Heligasse. Among the murmurs of the evening, the familiar sounds of the Loew household filter through. The slap of a wet rag as Gittel, the maid, yawns and scrubs the kitchen floor. The scurry of the mice that live under the stairs. The sough of a fire.

And from the open window of the study, Rebbe's voice, strained and urgent.

I understand. I understand. But—

The voice that interrupts him is a tired whistle, and it stops her dead in her tracks.

There is nothing more to discuss. At your request, we gave you the week of celebration.

Plus a few days extra
adds a second voice, gravel in a jar.

“Yankele?” Perel says. “What's wrong?”

I'm well aware of that
Rebbe says.
I appreciate it, more than I can express. But you must believe me. It is not yet time. We still have need of him.

Her
the gravelly voice says
.

Your sisters and brothers are highly displeased
the whistling voice says.

I beseech you
Rebbe says.
We are in need. An extension—

There are no more extensions.

Perel's fingers clutch at her arm
.

A new voice—round and sympathetic but no more inclined to bend—says
It has been two years.

And for two years we have had peace
Rebbe says.
Take him away—

Her
the gravelly voice snaps.

—and it will not last. I guarantee you that.

Every evil shall be dealt with in its own time and place
the whistling voice says.

But if we can prevent it from happening to begin with—

I knew this would happen
the gravelly voice says.
I said it, didn't I?

We are not in the business of prevention
the whistling voice says.
It is not granted to us, nor to you.

I said he'd get attached, and I was right.

It'll only get harder if you wait
the round voice says.

The balance of justice
the whistling voice says
demands a correction.