The little wizened shamesh put his hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a little mirror, the sort women carry in their purses. He held it in front of my face.
“Na! Here! Look! I tell them. Here, in front you, is the goylem. Der emesser goylem. The true, the real, the authentic goylem. Now you’ve seen him, is what I tell them. You wanted to see the goylem and now you’ve seen the goylem.” And the shamesh laughed merrily.
Was he reprising for me what he had done for countless others, or was it at me he was now aiming his jibe? He laughed with such joy it seemed he was laughing at me as he was laughing at the foolishness of people who finally got to see the goylem they sought. Still, his little act was so subtle, full of subterfuge, I couldn’t figure him out.
But I laughed too, and saw myself laughing at the golem in the little glass. The shamesh, pleased with himself, now put the mirror back into his jacket pocket.
“A marvelous ploy. Terrific. Original. Clever. Unusual. It has the making of legend. It deserves to be filmed…I’ll film you. I’ll make a movie — I’m a producer of documentary films — a movie of this shul and I’ll film you doing just this.”
Another great scene for my film, I thought. The scenes were just piling up, one after another. Falling into my lap. And I hadn’t even taken out my camera.
The shamesh took a comb out of another pocket, looked at the little mirror again, combed his hair and patted it down.
“I suppose you want to know where the attic is,” he said, addressing the mirror. Then he looked down at his shoes. Careful, I said. But I didn’t heed my own warning and didn’t hear the ambiguity in his voice.
So this time I didn’t play coy or hard to get. At once I said:
“Yes.”
“And you also want to see the goylem.”
“Not a second time,” I said with a smile. “Once is enough.”
The shamesh too smiled.
“Ah! Now you sound entuziastish.”
“Yes.”
“Follow me, yungerman.”
We entered the shul again through the anteroom. I saw the other men holding their tallis bags standing in clusters chatting. The man who had let me in nodded to me. The morning service was over but the after-sound of prayers still hovered in the air.
“Look up,” the shamesh said. “Do you see the vaulted arches?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how high up it is?”
I looked up, saw the huge, five-part vaulted pillars, purposely architected so that it would not look like a cross. I saw the banner that King Charles V had presented to the congregation in 1357 as a symbol of their independence. No conquerer of Prague had ever removed the flag.
“Um, I’d say seventy feet.”
“Not bad…ninety-two feet. Now follow me once more.” Again we went out into the anteroom and made a semicircular right turn. Now we were in the tiny women’s section, which had only a few chairs and no visibility except for some window-like openings chiseled into the deep stones, maybe fourteen inches high and seven inches wide. The openings were cut into the three-foot-thick stone walls and looked into the men’s section. How uncomfortable it must be, I thought, for women to pray here.
“Look up. Up up up. Do you see doors? A staircase? Steps?… Look…look…do you see anything?”
“No.”
“You want to look in the mirror again?”
“No.”
“Now you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Is there an attic up there?”
I felt like Schweik. I was itching to say, Yes.
“Do I get a prize if I answer correctly?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A trip to the attic…. So what’s the correct answer? Is there an attic up there?”
“No.”
“Right. You get a prize. I’m apprising you there is no attic. There was no attic. There is no attic. There will be no attic. The Al-tnigh-shul never had an attic. It’s a bobbe-mayse, a legend, like the goylem… Now, when will you film me? I want to look good, to get a haircut…when?”
Again the shamesh took out his little mirror, looked at himself, fussed a bit with some wispy tufts of white hair.
“I haven’t set up my schedule yet. As you know, I just got here. But I’ll be in touch with you.”
“Wait a minute, yungerman.”
I stopped.
“What’s your Hebrew name? Next time you come I’ll give you an aliya.”
“Amschl ben Moshe.”
The shamesh gave a start. His head and torso were thrust back. “I haven’t heard that name for a long time. But do not worry, I’ll remember it. Amschl ben Moshe.”
As soon as the shamesh left, Yossi golem came up to me, shaking his head, his lips compressed, a look of disdain on the left side of his face.
“Disgraceful. Those asses. No consideration. And they call themselves God-fearing, observant Jews. Did you see the way they laughed at you, derided you, made a mockery of you? Rocking back and forth in laughter like metronomes. Please accept my apologies on their behalf. But let’s forget them. Back to business. I’ll try to help you, for you were sent to me by my dear friend, almost a kinsman, Jiri of blessed memory. Now I’m going to send you to another family friend, her name is Eva, and she’ll be helpful too. She has lived here all her life and knows people. No doubt that’s the person Jiri wanted you to meet.”
I wondered why Jiri didn’t send me to her directly. Perhaps that was the cause of Jiri and Betty’s argument, Jiri stressing one point, Betty another. Perhaps they wanted the golem to check me out. Still, I thought, why did I need a middleman?
“Because,” the golem answered, “Jiri wanted me to meet you. He wanted my opinion. He values my opinion.”
Opinion for what? I didn’t say. I didn’t even think it lest the golem read my thoughts again.
“I think you’ll like Eva. She’s a very interesting woman, a heroine of the Resistance, a pianist, she studied with Dvořák’s son-in-law, Josef Suk—”
“I just saw some youngsters carrying a placard for a concert with the violinist Josef Suk. Is he still alive?”
Yossi golem laughed. “No. That Josef Suk died in 1935. You’re seeing the name of his grandson, who has the same name, and he’s no youngster either… But people do live to ripe old ages, you know. Like entertainers in the US who have gone beyond one hundred. Irving Berlin, for instance?”
“Yes, I know. Chagall at 98. George Burns, 101. Moses at 120.”
“Very nice,” Yossi said quickly. “But no more obituaries today, please. So. To continue. Eva has plenty of stories about the old Jewish community and sites of Jewish interest here that few people know about. And if she likes you, she will introduce you to other interesting people.”
I did some calculating. “Wait a minute. If Eva studied with the first Joseph Suk so many decades ago, she must be up there in years. How old is she?”
“I don’t know. She’s older than me and I’m sixty-eight.”
“No. I don’t believe it. You’re sixty-eight? Impossible. You don’t look a day over fifty-four. Okay, maybe fifty-five.”
The golem laughed.
“Well, I’m in good shape, even without my right eye. I’m made of good elements… And when you see Eva, send her my best regards.”
Yossi wrote Eva’s full name — Eva Langbrot — her address and phone number on a slip of paper, even suggested the Metro line and station closest to her house. Then he said:
“It’s all very nice. We have had a lovely conversation, a good time together, but one thing is missing.”
“What?”
“Your Hebrew name, tovarish.” Yossi golem smiled. “I still don’t know your Hebrew name. Suppose one day we want to give you an aliya here.”