He, She and It

by Marge Piercy

  “This cyborg is the property of the town?”

  Avram wavered. Finally he simply nodded.

  “He is not the property of anyone,” Malkah insisted. “But he’s a citizen of the town.”

  “The town has as a matter of fact not yet ruled on that point,” Avram said. “If you send through the precise terms, I shall be glad to present them to the Council Monday night, when the whole matter of Yod’s status is on the agenda as item number one of a full town meeting.”

  “One of those places that votes: how quaint,” Krupp said. Now he rose. He could not tolerate anyone standing over him. All of his party promptly jerked to their feet. “I don’t care if you consult the entrails of chickens to reach a decision. I want your answer by nine a.m. next Tuesday, three October. Otherwise we will launch our attack.”

  They filed out one at a time, the Josh imitation last. He glared at Shira and at Yod and then scuttled after the others. Was he a creation of machine intelligence? Was he an actor skilled at projection of foreign personae? Seeing Josh even artificially had hit her hard. She could not yet respond to what had happened, but she would have time to think about it. She would have the rest of today and Monday until nineteen-thirty to fret and brood and make plans.

  After they had unplugged, Yod went home with Malkah and Shira. They walked down the street, bright with sun mellowed by the wrap, the bustle of a Sunday morning in Tikva: the voices of children playing in the next street, the sound of a cello being practiced, Danny the carpenter walking his dog, someone hammering. Yod said, “I’m going to write a speech to deliver tomorrow night. Will you both help me? We must persuade the Council to free me from Avram’s control. I suspect time is running out for me. Running out fast.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  The Return of Joseph

  I hate fasting, but of course today I do it. Last night the Kol Nidre service was more moving than usual, and it always does shake me hard. My part was to read the poem by Mara Schliemann that everybody but the Orthodox use these days, about the heritage we share now of having had a nation in our name as stupid and as violent as other nations: a lament for a lost chance, a botched redemption, a great repair of the world, tikkun olam, gone amiss. My eyes always burn when I read it, and my throat begins to thicken.

  This is the season we must forgive others and ask them to pardon us. I went to Yod this morning, and I asked him to forgive me for having taken part in his formation; more than ever, I have been thinking what overweening ambition and pride are involved in our creating of conscious life we plan to use and control, when we cannot even fully use our own minds and we blunder and thrash about vainly in our own lives. No life is for us but for itself.

  Unlike a human, Yod is not apt to pretend he does not understand what you are saying when it is inconvenient or uncomfortable to understand. He has a kind of dignity all his own. He said, “What you gave me is the good part of my existence. But you must forgive me, too, as I try to find my own way out of the untenable position of being Avram’s wholly owned monster.”

  Lying in bed now, weak with hunger, I must finish my story for Yod. I cannot work today, and I promised him.

  That spring, dear Yod, the Maharal has a dream of Yom Kippur. He wakens one May morning in a gray chill just before dawn with a sense of foreboding, breaking from a vivid and monitory dream. In the dream he noticed a light burning in the middle of the night in the Altneushul. Who was in there? A servant of Thaddeus, planting evidence of imaginary wrongdoing? A thief about to make off with the fine silver candlesticks or the silver incense shovel? He let himself in and crept down the aisle. Under the eternal flame a being in blinding white robes was writing on a long parchment. The angel of death, Moloch ha maves; Judah recognized him at once. In the dream he realized it was the night before Yom Kippur. The angel was writing the names of those who were to die in the next year. Quietly Judah crept forward, and then like a panther he leapt and ripped the parchment from the angel.

  The angel smiled and opened his hand, showing him the stub of the list, still clutched where Judah had torn it off. There remained only his name. Silently the angel of death offered him the stub of parchment in exchange for the return of the list, all those from his flock the angel had chosen to die in the next year. Judah paused only a moment. Then he tore up the list and ate it a piece at a time. It was bitter in his mouth and burned. The angel regarded him steadfastly and gestured to him to come forward. He turned from the angel and woke in his bed at dawn.

  These days Judah sleeps little, but still he finds it hard to pry his sore bones from his bed in the morning. He feels his mind still keen and whetted, but he could be fooling himself. His intelligence could be easing into foolishness without his being aware. He could be making errors he can no longer comprehend. He can never be sure when Joseph might turn into a huge walking mistake, the strongest thing in human shape in the world, with the understanding of perhaps a six-year-old child. The Maharal shakes his head. If he himself dies in his sleep tonight, Joseph will live on.

  How long? A hundred years? Two hundred? Five hundred? What could kill a golem? Joseph has been stabbed, shot, attacked by ten men at a time. He bled his thick black blood, and then he healed within the hour. If Judah dies this day, will Joseph continue meekly to obey whatever rabbi replaces him? Once he expected that rabbi to be his son, dead now before him. Death slipped into his son’s life in an instant. Judah is convinced that the dream means he will die following Yom Kippur. About five months he can count on to put his affairs in order; no more. The Talmud teaches that the dream follows its interpretation: as he believes the meaning to be, so shall it be.

  The Maharal fasts that day, locking himself away from Perl’s protests. He must think. The emperor has finally moved against Thaddeus. Rudolf hates confrontation, particularly in Prague itself, in his face. He has discovered that Thaddeus is planning a move against the Protestants. Now, the Jews are useful to Rudolf, but the Protestants are vital. They are a majority of the country and include many nobles. Stirring them up is not something the emperor is prepared to countenance. The emperor put four high noblemen to work on the diplomatic dealing, and now Thaddeus is being recalled to Rome. A few extreme Protestant preachers are arrested on various charges and disappear. Peace is restored. A more accommodating Dominican is promised to his majesty.

  As a consequence, the Maharal feels the dangerous time is passing. He still prays to understand whether creating Joseph is right or wrong, misguided pride or skill well used in the service of his people. The longer Joseph remains in the world, the more likely it is that the Maharal will come to regret his creation. He is a tired old man. His age has caught up with him at last.

  What should he do? Should he entrust Joseph to someone else in the ghetto? He has no idea who will succeed him as chief rabbi. After all, the powerful men of the community passed over him for most of his life in favor of candidates with whom they felt more comfortable, rabbis who did not denounce their pride and power, who would defer to them in all truly important matters. Since he cannot control his own successor, how can he entrust an unknown with a power as great as Joseph’s?

  That night he returns to his bedroom and lies sleepless beside his wife. At dawn, when Perl wakes, she immediately begins berating him on his fast, and he promises her that today he will eat. Unlike him these creaky days, she still rises quickly. She goes from sleep to waking without an intermediate state of drowsiness. Five minutes after waking, she is on her way downstairs to see about his breakfast. She moves slowly, short of breath always, but she will trust this task to no one else.

  At breakfast, Chava has a book propped behind her plate. Pesach is over. They eat hot gruel and a warm crusty loaf of rye with sour cherry jam put up last summer. She is reading a new treatise on astronomy that David Gans has lent her. David is always trying to interest Chava in the stars, but she prefers his geography and travel books. “I wish I had more mathematics,” she mumbles. “Kepler is doing all sorts of new things I can’t follow.�
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  “An abacus can do anything you need,” Perl says. “I’ve kept the books for years for our household and for the synagogue, for the poor relief, for the burial society. I keep everybody’s books. An abacus is all anyone needs to manage numbers.”

  Chava nods politely, but her eyes never leave her book. What Judah particularly notices is that Joseph’s eyes stay on her, hoping she will look back at him. Struggling with the text, frowning, Chava is unaware of the Golem’s stare. She likes to talk to David, and so she wants to master something he considers important, even though she finds it remote from her own intellectual passions. The Golem watches her without self-consciousness, openly, expectantly. Judah does not like that expectation, not at all.

  He sends a message to Yakov, busy these days on Maisl’s business, and one to Itzak, Chava’s father. He asks them to meet him that night after evening services at the Altneushul.

  Yakov is obviously impatient. Itzak is simply tired. They both look at Judah with what-now expressions. Danger? Finances?

  “Let’s hear the bad news,” Yakov demands, always the more impetuous. “The emperor is levying yet another fine?”

  The Maharal sighs. “We’ll raise the money he demands, somehow. I suspect we shall go along in peace awhile now, with only the usual troubles.”

  “If you need to raise money for repairs or the school, you’d go straight to my father-in-law, not to us,” Yakov says.

  “Yakov ben Sassoon ha-Levi, what a mouth you have on you,” Itzak says. “We’re all tired. Let’s sit down and put our feet up and hear our master.”

  “The matter,” the Maharal says, “is Joseph.”

  “Joseph.” Yakov scratches his head. “Is it true what they say, that he and Chava are talking marriage?”

  “What?” Itzak is hearing this rumor for the first time, and his mouth drops. He frowns, rising from the chair he has just taken.

  “Pure silliness,” Judah says. “You of all men should know how little interest my granddaughter has in any man and in any marriage. She knows what Joseph is.”

  “I never told her,” Itzak says quickly, defensively. “I never even hinted about it in her presence.”

  “None of us told her. No one needed to. Joseph told her, not by his words but by his actions, what he is to the discerning eye.”

  “I am relieved,” Yakov says gently. “It was a frightful idea.”

  “You’re relieved? Nobody even dared tell me such…such dreck, excuse me. I’m angry enough to boil water on my head. How dare people talk about my daughter this way? Not a breath of scandal has ever touched her, ever.”

  “This is irrelevant except to the larger question of Joseph. I created him in a time of danger. He has carried out his mission. I am coming to believe that it is time to return him to clay.”

  “Agreed.” Itzak nods vehemently. “He is too strong and too stupid for his strength. He’s a danger to us all. You’re an old man. May you live for a thousand years in good health, Maharal, but—”

  “But I won’t. Soon I’ll die. Who then will control Joseph?”

  Yakov pulls on his beard. “It’s like the death of a man, Maharal. I like the big guy. He’s brave. So he shouldn’t marry Chava or anybody else. How can a golem marry? He can’t procreate. He isn’t human, but he thinks, he feels. He saved us. We all know it.”

  “Do we?” Itzak pulls straight up in his chair. “I know you did as much to save us as Joseph, and so did Bad Yefes the Gambler, who is now Good Yefes of blessed memory. So did the Maharal, by rousing us to resist. So did everyone who fought or built the barricades or carried stones for the barricade. We all saved each other.”

  “Joseph fought harder. He’s stronger. He was a real hero. Even a dog or a horse, people can be grateful when they save a life. Why not put him out to pasture, let him live out his life like a good old horse?”

  “Because a horse can’t pull down the ghetto, but Joseph can.” The Maharal would like to sit but remains upright. He stands tall before the two men, like a teacher before a small class.

  “Why should he do that? He’s big and strong and not too smart, but he doesn’t go around looking for trouble.”

  “Remember the watchmen, please. There have been other needless killings. Including a woman you don’t know about. And I control him. Can you?” The Maharal brings his face close to Yakov’s.

  Yakov frowns for a moment. “No, Maharal. I can’t. I think he likes me, but you’re the only one he adores.”

  “I made him. I must unmake him. But I will not destroy him. I will leave him intact. If anyone comes in future who has the mastery of the forces of life, they can wake him if the times are truly needful.”

  “When do you want to do this thing?” Itzak asks.

  “Tomorrow, please wash and purify yourselves and prepare, as you did for the creation. We’ll meet here after evening services.”

  As the Maharal leaves his little room, Joseph is just putting out the lamps, the hundreds of candles. Joseph looks at the three of them with open curiosity. “Is something wrong?” he asks.

  The Maharal shakes his head. “Close up and come home now. Tomorrow after services, we have some work to do here.”

  All day Judah spends preparing for his task. Mostly he stays alone in his study, but occasionally he looks out the window and sees Joseph hauling water or chopping wood or carrying a chest downstairs for a widow who is selling it to a dealer in secondhand furniture. Each time it is as if a hand is laid on Judah’s heart. So he used to feel when he had to punish his son. Twice Joseph feels his gaze and stops, gazing at the rabbi’s window. Apprehension seems to tweak at him, for he hesitates and shakes his head as a dog will to dislodge some biting insect tormenting his ear. Judah puts the regret aside and considers instead the widow and her poverty, what can be done for her. She should not have to sell off her last stick of furniture to live. With Joseph, Judah must do what he must do.

  Judah fasts that day. First Perl stops by to berate him, then Chava and lastly Joseph come by. “No,” he says to Joseph’s query, “I am not too ill to go to shul tonight. I’ll see you there.”

  Joseph has a premonition that the Maharal is displeased with him; he has been waiting for a chance to speak to Chava, but every time he plans to catch her alone, the Maharal appears.

  Joseph wonders if Judah has guessed his desire. Chava is on call, waiting for Barucha the seamstress to go into labor. Joseph hopes it happens tonight, so he can accompany her. Those are always good times for them to speak. In the meantime he has an urge to wander. He has never gone off on his own. Now he imagines leaving the ghetto and crossing the Karl Bridge, not on the Rabbi’s business but only because he wants to.

  As soon as he passes out of the gates, set wide for the day’s traffic, a sudden uneasiness comes over him. He finds himself shuffling along like an old man. He feels weak. He has never before experienced weakness. By the time he has reached the midpoint of the bridge, by a tortured saint’s statue, he can barely push through the thick spongy air. Everything seems dim and foggy. Voices come from a distance, as if he stood in a deep well. With great effort, he turns and shambles back. At once he can move more freely. When he has passed through the gates of the ghetto, he is once again strong, vigorous. Joseph does not understand what has just happened to him, and he does not dare ask the Rabbi, who has always told him not to go anywhere unless he is told to go. Joseph feels downcast and afraid. If his strength leaves him, what will he have?

  After services, once again Yakov and Itzak follow the Maharal into his study. The door opens, and Joseph plods in. He stops in surprise upon seeing the three men. The Maharal motions to the men to rise. “Joseph, we have a task to perform upstairs in the attic.”

  “The attic?” Joseph follows them, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. He cleans and sweeps the synagogue, yet he has never been upstairs. When prayer books—siddurs—become too old and decrepit to use, they are stored up there. Torahs are buried like people, but the siddurs have some intermediate
status. They cannot be discarded, for it seems too disrespectful, but they are not Torah. Therefore they fill the attic.

  They climb the steep flight of steps, carrying lanterns and candles. Mice skitter away from them. The doves who roost in the eaves stir and mutter. The Maharal has taken a Torah scroll and carries it cradled in its velvet clothes upstairs.

  In the dark room under the roof, littered with the pages and pages of worn-out siddurs, Judah goes apart from the three others to daven. He must concentrate. He must make ready. He must be sure. He is sure. What he has done, he must undo. For well or ill, he has brought something strange into the world, and he must remove it. Joseph has fulfilled his function. What he wants now he cannot have, for he is not a man, not a human being, not even an animal. He was not born and will not die, but the light and the breath will pass out of him, and he will be clay again. The others wait while Judah makes ready. To unmake a golem is a lesser task than to create one.

  “Lie down, Joseph,” Judah says gently.

  “Why?” Joseph remains standing, hunched forward. “What are you going to do? Why are we up here?”

  “Joseph, lie down!” The Maharal’s voice could crack glass.

  Joseph slowly sits on the floor. He does not lie as bidden. “What are you going to do to me?” He stares at the Maharal, then at each of the men in turn, trying to read their eyes. Yakov cannot look him in the eyes. Itzak, too, breaks his gaze and looks away. Only the Maharal looks at him—implacable, unflinching.

  “Joseph, lie down.” The Maharal’s voice is quiet but not soft. It is hard and slick and dark. It scares Joseph.

  Joseph folds his arms in protest. “What are you going to do to me? I haven’t done anything bad. I carried out what you wanted. I did it all.”

  “Joseph, you have fulfilled your function. Now you can return to your previous existence. Whatever you are really, you can once again become.” The Maharal extends his arms and begins to chant.