by Kim Fielding
Emet nodded enthusiastically. Jakob had recited the verses in Hebrew, which Emet didn’t understand. But then Jakob had translated some of it: kisses like wine, eyes like doves. I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine. The words were so beautiful.
Jakob ran his fingers through his beard, which was something he did when he was uncomfortable or deep in thought. “People… we find someone attractive. And we want, we want to lie with them. To have sex with them. Men want women and women want men. It’s how babies are conceived. You understand?”
Emet did, although not fully. The Song of Songs spoke of one person’s soul loving another. Emet had ached at these words, knowing he didn’t possess a soul and would never possess love. But humans did; he knew that much. “Do you want a woman, Jakob?”
“No.” Jakob’s eyes filled with pain and anguish. “I want… men.”
“Oh. Do you lie with them?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s wrong, Emet. Men cannot lie with other men.”
Emet knew he wasn’t very smart. Statements like this bewildered him. “Why not?” he repeated.
“It’s wrong. An abomination. A grave transgression.”
“But… why?”
“I don’t know!” Jakob shouted loud enough that the startled goats ran away. “I ask myself this. Why would God make me this way if it is wrong? I pray—every morning and night I pray, Emet. I beg God to help me change, to stop these thoughts that linger in my head and these desires that kindle in my heart. But he forsakes me.”
“You’re a good man, Jakob. You are kind and clever. Surely God must love you.”
Jakob shook his head. “Do you feel desire too, Emet?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand! You were created by Rabbi Eleazar, who is a pious man, and God gave you life. I was created by my parents, who are good and pious as well. And yet we have these… appetites. It’s as if I was able to chew only the flesh of swine. It’s forbidden, and I’d starve. I am starving.”
Emet moved closer. After a brief hesitation, he settled his hand on Jakob’s wool-clad shoulder. “You could lie with me, if you like. If my body allows it. I know I’m terrible, but I would try to be gentle. And I am not a man.”
“You’re certainly not a woman. And… I think of you as a man, Emet. Anyone who knew you would think of you that way.” He stepped back a little, allowing Emet’s hand to drop from his shoulder. He tilted his head to look up at the gray sky. Snowflakes landed on his eyelashes, making him blink. “It’s late. We have to hurry.” He turned his back to Emet and the goats and began to march toward town.
The next day was not Shabbos, but Jakob didn’t come to the shul to fetch Emet, and Emet worried over this all morning. Maybe it was only the weather that discouraged Jakob. The snow had stopped, but the air was very cold. Everyone who walked down the street moved quickly, bundled in layers of bulky clothing. Jakob might have stayed at home today, where he could huddle by the fire with his family. Emet hoped so. He didn’t want to imagine Jakob working alone on the top of the hill, too disgusted by Emet’s offer to face him again.
He considered what Jakob had told him about desiring men and about such a desire being wrong. Emet was only a simple creature made of clay, and he didn’t understand. It seemed to him if two people cared for one another—if they wanted to make each other feel good—such feelings were far better than disgust or hatred. Hadn’t Jakob told Emet that being kind to others, treating them as you wished to be treated, was a mitzvah, a blessing?
The attic was so lonely. Emet wrapped himself in old curtains and told himself some of the stories he’d learned from Jakob. He was in the middle of Noah’s tale—and trying to imagine what all those animals had looked like, crammed onto a boat—when he heard voices from the street below. He hurried to the window and saw a group of people gathered around a fancy carriage that he recognized as Gospodin Novák’s. Novák himself was standing on the cobbles beside two other beardless men. Someone was shouting.
Emet had never before left the attic without Rabbi Eleazer’s company. But he didn’t like the yelling. What if someone was in danger? He dropped the curtains onto the floor and ran to the door. It wasn’t locked. Even if it had been, he could have easily pulled it from its frame. He thundered down the stairs, his feet landing only on every third or fourth tread. He rushed through the empty foyer and out through the open front doors.
The assembled people gasped at his appearance. A few of them cried out in alarm, and several scurried farther away. But Rabbi Eleazar held his ground, as did the three men he’d been speaking to. Gospodin Novák looked nervous, and his companions, who had not seen the golem before, paled.
The sudden silence seemed oppressive. “May I help you, Master?” Emet asked.
Rabbi Eleazar was a small man, but he stood very tall and straight. “Wait beside me,” he commanded. “So you see,” he said to the men. “The golem is still here to protect us.”
Gospodin Novák shook his head. “It cannot fully protect you, Rabbi. I’m telling you—the plague is terrible this year. Children are dying in their mothers’ arms. And the duke spends his evenings gambling, falling deeper into debt. He’s desperate, and the city is desperate too. I’ve seen them collecting weapons and making sure they’re sharp. Leave here, Rabbi. Maybe when the weather warms, people will come to their senses and you can return.”
“And where are we to go?”
“Zilnicza is only a few days’ travel. The Jews there might take you in. Or perhaps Olodetz. They’ve a very fine synagogue—I’ve seen it myself.”
“I’ve seen it as well. But Mala Lubovnya is our home. It always has been. We will not abandon it, not even until spring.”
“Your golem can’t save you all. I saw it lift a cart and withstand a few blows, but it cannot take on an entire city.”
Emet tried to look fierce, but he knew Gospodin Novák was right. His strength was great, but not unlimited.
One of Novák’s companions was a tall man with a thin face. His gray hair was long and straggly where it escaped from beneath his hat. He looked like he’d much rather be seated in a plush chair in front of a fireplace with a glass of wine in hand. “Look here. Have you asked your people what they want? Maybe they have more sense than you.”
Instead of answering, Rabbi Eleazar lifted his arms toward the crowd. “What do you say, good people? Will you flee?”
The people muttered quietly. Then a woman stepped forward. Emet realized she was Jakob’s mother. She planted her hands on her hips and glared. “My husband built my house with his own hands. My sons were born there. I’d rather die than leave it.”
“You may very well get your wish,” said the tall man.
She didn’t back away. Within seconds she was joined by her husband and sons—including Jakob, whose eyes were wild. Other townspeople nodded their agreement. And to everyone’s surprise—including perhaps his own—Jakob marched to Emet’s side. “Emet— The golem has been working at my side for weeks now. I’ve seen what he can do. I trust him. I place my life in his hands.”
Emet wanted to embrace him, but he couldn’t even smile. He hoped Jakob somehow sensed his gratitude. And he hoped he could live up to such a great trust.
Rabbi Eleazar did smile. He faced Gospodin Novák and the other gentiles, but he raised his voice so the entire assemblage could hear him. “If anyone wishes to leave Mala Lubovnya, I will not stop him. I will even help him gather his belongings. And if he does not have a cart and cannot afford to buy one, I will give him mine. But I will stay here with the golem God has sent to protect us.”
The tall man made a sour face, as did his companion, a young man in fine clothes who hadn’t said a word. But Novák nodded slightly. “I cannot decide whether you are a very brave man, my friend, or a very foolish one.”
“All men are fools, Gospodin Novák. Most especially those who think themselves wise.”
Novák chuckled. “I hope
your golem and your faith protect you, Rabbi. I hope they protect you all.” He grunted and wheezed as he climbed back into his carriage. His friends followed, and the carriage rattled away.
None of the crowd dispersed. In fact, others showed up, until it seemed as if the entire town stood on the street, shivering in the cold and looking at the rabbi and golem with grim faces. Emet would have quailed under those staring eyes if Jakob hadn’t been standing so close by his side, his head held high.
“Perhaps,” said Rabbi Eleazar very loudly, “some of you would like to discuss this matter. Please come inside where it’s warmer.” He walked back inside the shul, followed closely by Jakob’s family and Emet. Most of the rest filed inside as well.
In the foyer, Rabbi Eleazar pointed at the stairs. “Return to the attic,” he said to Emet.
Emet started to obey but was held back when Jakob grabbed his arm. “He’s a part of this too, Rabbi. Let him join us.”
“He’s only a golem.”
“He’s more than you think.”
The rabbi gave them both a long, considering look. “All right,” he finally said.
For the first time, Emet was allowed to enter the large chapel. Women sat upstairs on the mezzanine with the younger children, while older boys and men filled the seats downstairs. Jakob was with his father and brothers in the very front row. But Emet was hesitant to sit—his clothes were too ragged and dirty for such a fine room, and he didn’t feel as if he belonged in a chair. These chairs were meant for those who worshiped God; perhaps God would be offended at a soulless monster among them. So Emet instead chose to stand against a wall, and from that vantage point, he could see Jakob’s face.
When everyone was seated and the whispering had settled down, Rabbi Eleazar addressed the congregation. He summarized the situation with the duke and the plague-ridden city folk, and he told a few dire stories of what had happened to Jews in similar situations in the past. He explained how he’d read ancient stories about golems and decided to try to create one himself. He described Emet’s strength and resistance to injury. And then he allowed the people to ask questions and make comments.
After a while, Emet stopped listening. He didn’t understand much of what people were saying, and anyway his role was clear: obey his master’s orders, whatever they might be. He allowed his attention to focus on the room’s furnishings and the faces of the congregation. And he especially watched Jakob and his family. The father and brothers barely glanced at him, but Jakob looked at him often, usually with a smile Emet couldn’t help but return.
The conversation continued for a long time. Several people yelled and a few cried. But in the end, nobody seemed willing to leave Mala Lubovnya. Rabbi Eleazar stood in front of the dais where the Torah was kept in its decorated ark, and he nodded at his people. “Let us pray that hope and prudence will conquer fear and tyranny.” He began to sing.
The rabbi’s voice was loud but thin. It didn’t matter, however, because the entire congregation joined him. That would have been lovely enough, as several hundred throats opened, several hundred tongues and lips moved in unison, and the notes bounced and thundered throughout the sanctuary like an ocean of sound. But then that one voice chimed in too, clear and pure, cresting the chorus like a wave.
Emet searched the crowd for the source of the sublime singing—and his legs nearly gave out when he realized it was Jakob.
Jakob sang with his eyes closed and his head thrown back. He was always handsome, but now he could have been mistaken for an angel as all his usual doubts and hesitancy fled his face, replaced by an expression Emet thought must be passion. People smiled at Jakob as he sang, but he didn’t see them. His conversation was with God only, as Jakob thanked him and pled for peace.
Jakob had told Emet stories about souls. At the time, Emet had trouble understanding what a soul was, perhaps because he hadn’t one of his own. But now he saw Jakob’s soul very plainly. It was a thing of transcendent beauty.
Only when Emet’s vision blurred did he realize he was crying. He brushed his fingers against his cheeks; they came away wet. He licked one finger—remembering the way Jakob’s finger had so recently entered him—and tasted clay and salt. He could have crumbled to dust at that moment and been content.
When the prayers were over, the congregation slowly left the sanctuary. A few of them smiled at him as they passed, and he smiled back. Jakob was one of the last to leave. He didn’t say anything to Emet, but he looked like he wanted to.
“So,” said Rabbi Eleazar when everyone else was gone. “It seems you have joined the congregation. Do you understand what happens in this room?”
Emet nodded. “Yes. It’s wonderful.”
“Do you understand… God?”
“No. But I am grateful he allowed me to be created. I want to please him and protect his people.”
The rabbi smiled. “Then perhaps you understand enough.”
7
Emet was shy with Jakob the next day, too much in awe of him to talk as they walked to the hill. Jakob was quiet too; he seemed lost in his own thoughts. Even when they began to work, Jakob spoke only to issue orders.
During the previous week, a cartload of timbers had been delivered to the bottom of the hill. One of Jakob’s brothers drove the wagon but remained seated and silent as Emet carried the big pieces of wood up to the house. When the wagon was empty, he drove away without a word. Emet lifted the timbers so Jakob could fasten them in place, and by the end of the day, the roof was formed. “That would have taken my family the entire week,” Jakob said with wonder. “And we’d all have been sore afterward.”
Once the roof supports were in place, Jakob showed Emet how to install the thatch. That job required skill more than brute strength and took them some time. After they eventually finished, they went inside and smeared clay daub over the ceiling. Emet thought the clay might have come from the same place he did, which made him happy—it was as if Jakob would always have a bit of Emet in his home.
Today the daub was dry. Emet helped Jakob smooth it out; then they swept the debris off the stone floor and scattered it outside. Many small tasks remained after that. They glazed the small windows, hung the solid door, and built a few shelves and cupboards. While Jakob worked on carving the mantelpiece, Emet assembled the boards for the front porch.
Woodworking was still very new to Emet, and he asked frequent questions. He was inside the house, asking yet again, when a woman’s voice called from outside. “Jakob? Jakob!”
Jakob set his tools down very quickly. “Mama,” he muttered. He rushed out the door with Emet behind him.
Jakob’s mother stood a short distance from the house. Her head was tilted to the side as she inspected the structure. She wore several layers of sweaters and stockings and scarves, and a small wheelbarrow was at her side. “It is a very pretty house, Jakob.”
Jakob embraced her. “Thank you, Mama.”
“I am amazed by how quickly you’ve built it! You’ve worked yourself to exhaustion.”
“I haven’t. I had Emet’s help.” Jakob gestured in Emet’s direction and then seemed struck by a thought. “I should introduce you properly. Mama, this is Emet the golem. My friend. Emet, this is my mother, Mrs. Rivka Abramov.”
Emet had never been introduced to anyone before and wasn’t sure what to do. “Hello, ma’am,” he said softly as Mrs. Abramov peered sharply at him.
“Hello,” she responded finally. “You have worked very hard for my son.”
“I’m happy to help.”
She nodded, then clucked her tongue. “And even a golem must be cold in such clothing, in this weather! I thought so yesterday when I saw you in the shul. So I’ve brought you something. It’s not much—I had very little time, and we are not wealthy people.” As Emet watched with curiosity and astonishment, she pulled something out of the barrow. It was a folded piece of fabric. At first he thought it might be a curtain for Jakob’s house or perhaps a rug, but when Mrs. Abramov unfolded it, he saw it w
as actually an enormous cloak.
Mrs. Abramov flapped the fabric a little. “Ach, it’s not such a pretty thing. If I had all winter, I could knit you a sweater. This is only bits and pieces of old clothing sewn together. You see?” She pointed to a dark-red patch. “This was a tunic Jakob wore when he was a boy.”
Jakob grinned widely. “You’ve made him a coat of many colors, Mama?”
She flapped her hand at her son as if she were annoyed, but Emet saw the sparkle in her eyes. She walked to Emet and held the cloak out, and when he hesitated to take it—he couldn’t quite believe it was for him—she clucked again and stood on tiptoes so she could settle it on his shoulders. It was heavy and warm, and it smelled like Jakob.
Emet wrapped the cloak around himself. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s beautiful. Thank you so much.”
“Ach, it’s nothing. Just a rag.” Her face glowed with pleasure.
Jakob watched the interchange with puzzlement on his face. Now he came forward to kiss her cheek. “That was nice of you, Mama.”
“It’s nothing. I brought other things too, for you. Some old household goods, which I thought you could use. A soup pot, bedding… remember that little green rug from when you were small? You used to trip over it every morning. You were such a clumsy child.”
He grinned at her. “Thank you. Would you like to see the inside? It’s not finished, but—”
“No. It’s bad luck. You can have me for a proper visit when you’re through with it. Go put these things away. I want a word with your golem.”
Emet and Jakob exchanged uneasy glances, but Jakob nodded. “All right.” He pushed the wheelbarrow to his porch, struggled to get it up the single step, and then brought it inside and shut the door.
“Emet is a good name,” Mrs. Abramov said.
“Thank you. Jakob gave it to me.”
“Hmm. You work well together, you and my son.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned her head to gaze down the hill at the town. She had Jakob’s eyes, but they were troubled. She crossed her arms over her ample chest, hugging herself. “Speak truly, Emet. Will you protect my Jakob?”