The emperor, I decided, did not qualify as an unfortunate. He was busy, he was unhappy, he had many demands on his time, but he had many advantages that others did not, and as human lives go, he was fortunate indeed.
What about the ratcatcher, I thought? He had a miserable job and was derided by many, sometimes even set upon. He was poor, his wife was dead, and his own health was not good. But he had his daughter, and that was certainly a fortunate occurrence.
I considered each person, one by one, in the Jewish Town, wondering to whom I would give the alms. There were people who were unfortunate, that was true. Some were poor, some were mean-spirited, some were set upon by fate or by gentiles. But they all had, if they chose to make use of it, the wisdom and guidance of our leader, Rabbi Loew, certainly one of the wisest rabbis for thousands of miles and for centuries forward and back. I could not, in all honesty, come up with a Jew here who was as unfortunate as a golem, a being with no soul who is not allowed to rest peacefully as part of the earth.
I walked away from the Jewish Town, into gentile Praha, wondering to whom I would give the alms. I had no idea of the fortunes and misfortunes of gentiles. How could I even tell if they were unhappy? They had features almost as static as my own.
I had not been walking long when I saw a man in his dooryard, beating a woman with a willow stick. Formerly, I would have stopped him by lifting him up like a rat, by the scruff of his neck, but that option was no longer open to me.
The woman was crying and trying to shield herself with her hands to little effect. “Damn, damn, damn,” the man was saying. “My donkey is dead, you useless whore.” With every word, he struck a blow.
“But it is not my fault,” the woman said, between blows. “I did not cause this! You starved him and beat him, and now he is dead. Why hit me?”
The man stopped hitting the woman, but held on to her arm and shook her violently.
“It gave me pleasure to beat that donkey, and now it is gone.” He gave the woman one last shake, and said to her, “My arm is tired. We will continue this later.” Then he walked away, massaging his shoulder.
His wife stood there for a long moment with her eyes shut, then took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “What are you looking at?” she asked me accusingly.
I gestured towards the man, and shook my fist in his direction.
The wife glared at me. One of her eyes was swollen shut. “The Jewish golem would protect me from my own husband? I think not!”
I nodded at her. I would do it, I thought, even though she is not Jewish.
“And what would I do with your protection?” she asked. “Would your protection feed my children, and the one on the way? We would starve, and before that, the kind neighbors would burn us out of any hovel we might lodge in. No, I am better off taking a beating every so often.”
This woman truly was less fortunate than I, as she had others to take care of beyond herself, and even as I thought that, I realized that she was only one of many women in the same predicament. I was sad that I could not help them all, even if they would permit it. But I could help her, and myself as well.
I turned my back to her, and, shielding my mouth from her view, extracted the coins. They were dry, of course. The mouth of a golem is dry and clean, like the inside of a kiln. That is why the Shem, a mere piece of paper, sits safe in my mouth all week long.
I turned back, and offered her the coins.
She took them, with barely a nod of thanks. “This will do me,” she said, with an unpleasant smile. “I will buy him another donkey.” She turned away from me as if I did not exist.
As far as I could see, my task was accomplished, but I received no satisfaction from this.
Much of the Rabbi’s pleasure in his work, I had noticed, was derived from the thought that he was doing good, and I had hoped, in giving the alms, to experience that pleasure in a small way and to regain my strength at the same time. But there was no pleasure in the giving of those alms. This woman’s life was no better than it had been before, and somewhere there was a donkey whose life might shortly become considerably worse. Is this why the Christians say that money is the root of all evil?
I walked back toward the Jewish Town, thinking that at least I had given away the alms, and my strength would return. To test it, I grabbed a large tree and sought to tear it out by its roots. I tugged and tugged, but it did nothing. So I had not regained my strength. Woe, I thought. Woe unto me. I should never have touched those coins. But perhaps now the Rabbi would turn me back into useful clay.
But when I returned to Rabbi Loew, and I demonstrated for him that I had not regained my strength, he was sympathetic.
“It didn’t work, Yossele?” He shook his head. “I wonder why. I do think the solution lies in an act of charity. Problems involving money are often mended when charity enters the picture.”
“Come, sit here with me and my Pearl. We will discuss it among the three of us. Sometimes two heads are better than one.”
Yes, I thought. There are three of us here but, as the Rabbi noted, only two minds at work. I would try not to slow them down. We sat near the fire, which was comfortable for them, and not too uncomfortable for me.
“Pearl knows the situation,” said the Rabbi, “at least inasmuch as I know it.”
“You gave someone the money, Yossele?” the Rebbetzin asked me, in her accustomed quiet voice. She was an old woman, as the Rev was an old man, but her voice was as light as a girl’s and her mind was strong and of a good will.
I nodded. I gestured that it was a gentile woman. We have developed a vocabulary of signs, the Rabbi and I. He and the Rebbetzin understood immediately.
“And what did she do with the money?” the Rebbetzin asked.
Donkey, I gestured, making with my hands long ears on either side of my head. I gestured unhappiness.
“She used it for an unkind purpose?” she guessed.
I nodded.
“Perhaps that is why the act of charity didn’t return your strength?” she said uncertainly.
“My love, I think that cannot be relevant,” said the Rabbi. “I think that the giver cannot be held responsible for what is done with his charity. But I do think that, as the Rambam has said, some forms of charity are more worthy than others.”
I thought about this. Having heard what the gentile woman was going to do with the money, I was inclined to agree with the Rebbetzin that my gift was tainted. But the Rabbi no doubt knew of what he was speaking. I had read the wise and brilliant Rambam myself, or at least I had carried his books about, and he was truly a wonderful thinker. The question was beyond my powers of resolution, but I had faith the Rabbi would provide an answer.
“Let us settle this question. Yossele, charity is the greatest mitzvah, and you are now to go out and accomplish the greatest form of charity: you are to enable a beggar to better himself so that he no longer needs to beg. I don’t know if you can accomplish this on your own, but you must try.”
I have no soul, so I have not felt any necessity that I perform a mitzvah, a duty laid upon Jews but not upon gentiles or golems. As far as the sages and I can tell, I am not under those requirements. When I follow the Rabbi’s instructions, as I must, I can take no credit for any task I perform. If I carry food to the poor, it is not my mitzvah, it is the Rabbi’s, and I am doing it in his stead. But now I had a charity that was mine to perform, and it was truly a mitzvah, an obligation.
I hoped that this did not mean that I was to be given a soul. I did not want a soul. I simply wanted to regain my strength and serve the Rabbi. But I wondered how it could be that I could help a human better himself.