He was most respected, perhaps even feared, by Emperor Rudolf himself. Michael saw Rudolf in Hradčany Castle, tall and wild-eyed like the actor John Carradine, moving among his strange collections of art, animals, and rare objects. Look: in the private zoo, a two-headed alligator, snakes with legs, a cow with tits on its back. And look: two nails from Noah’s Ark! And dirt from a place called Hebron where God made Adam in His own image! And the horn of a unicorn!
And there was Emperor Rudolf, his face covered with a white mask from Japan, clopping over cobblestones in a stagecoach through the foggy midnight streets of Prague. Going to see Rabbi Loew. To enter the book-lined study, where the rabbi closed the drapes and lit candles, and listened to the Emperor’s tales of woe: treacherous alchemists, spies sent by the greedy English, fighting on the borders with the Turks. The Emperor himself, listening to advice, nodding, embracing the wise rabbi, hurrying back to the fog-shrouded Castle.
But it wasn’t just Rabbi Loew’s wisdom that drew the Emperor to him. The rabbi possessed something else that the Emperor could not buy, could not collect, something that he wanted and feared.
Magic.
The magic of the Kabbalah.
Michael saw Rabbi Loew in his big green chair in the study, a fire burning low in the hearth, a sheet of paper on a book in his lap, a hand to his temple, his eyes closed, and knew that he was communicating with rabbis all over Europe. His hand held a feathery pen and began to move, and words appeared on the paper in a language nobody knew. The words told of planned campaigns against Jews, the kidnapping of Jewish women, of forced conversions and burnings at the stake. Rabbi Loew’s advice was sent out to Russia and Italy and Belgium, without a word being spoken, without Rabbi Loew even once opening his eyes. Magic.
And as if he were at a movie, Michael saw him displaying his other powers. There was, for example, the first time that the Emperor came to the rabbi’s house. A jealous associate of the rabbi, short, fat, greedy, sweating heavily on a winter day, forged an elaborate letter to the Emperor, inviting him to a formal banquet at the rabbi’s house. The clear intention was to embarrass Rabbi Loew, whose cramped and book-strewn quarters were fine for his family but obviously could not accommodate a formal dinner for a goddamned emperor. The Emperor sent word that he accepted. And Rabbi Loew understood that it could be very bad for the Jews if he canceled the invitation. So he turned to the Kabbalah.
Michael could see him in the study, consulting the magic alphabets, his face deep in concentration, murmuring words in a private language. And then on the evening of the so-called banquet, as Emperor Rudolf prepared to leave his castle in disguise, so that nobody in Prague would know where he was going, Rabbi Loew stepped outside and scanned the skies. There, visible only to him, a great flock of angels appeared, carrying an entire marble palace, lifted from a distant kingdom.
Angels. Hovering in the air. Wings beating. Muscles like cords and cables.
The angels set the palace upon an empty lot in the Jewish Quarter, and suddenly it could be seen by all.
Michael wandered through the banquet room of this palace, a vast space illuminated by ten thousand candles, and gazed at Rudolf’s intense face as he whispered with Rabbi Loew. Servants glided past Michael, carrying great platters of stuffed birds and thick steaks and soups in silver bowls, the air filled with the aroma of the feast. Michael listened to musicians play sad and melancholy music. He watched as jugglers and acrobats made the Emperor laugh. He saw the greedy assistant slink away into the night, surely never to return. The banquet was an astonishing success, and the Emperor returned to Hradčany Castle in the early hours of the morning full of amazement and respect.
“Before the Emperor reaches his own castle,” Rabbi Hirsch said, “the angels, they carry the palace back to its original spot. Later, Rabbi Loew tells the Emperor about the angels and the tricky assistant that caused the problem and the Emperor says, ‘Rabbi, next time I come to your real house.’ And that’s what he did. But ever after, nobody can ever question this miracle. If they do, they are calling the Emperor a fool.”
Then, for the first time, the great villain named Brother Thaddeus appeared in the story. A big hulking man with no hair on his head and no beard and no eyebrows. As bald as Dr. Sivana in Captain Marvel or Lex Luthor in Superman. He was the greatest enemy of Rabbi Loew and the king of the Jewhaters. A lot of times, he told lies to stir up his followers. He was at his worst around Passover, spreading rumors that Jews killed Christian babies and mixed their blood with the unleavened bread called matzoh. Why? To start riots called pogroms, inciting mobs to kill or drive out the Jews, and take over their homes and shops. Rabbi Loew had to use all of his powers to foil him.
Michael was suddenly huddled in a doorway, as a mob marched on the Jewish Quarter, hurling stones at old men and young ladies, smashing windows, waving sharpened poles called pikes. Up the street, Brother Thaddeus smiled from a balcony. Then—Shazam! — the stones were changed in mid-flight into roses. Big, fat, white roses! Their petals dropping away like snowflakes! Brother Thaddeus frowned. His jaw dropped. He barked orders. The crazy people in the mob threw more rocks and stones, but they kept turning into roses, piling around Michael in the street as high as his waist. A group of young Jews appeared to face the mob. They bowed to the crazy people and thanked them for the flowers, while Rabbi Loew watched from the shadows of his study. Rabbi Loew did not smile.
Then, the scene shifted, and a second mob assembled in a square in the shadow of a cathedral, loading baskets with stones, sharpening knives, while Brother Thaddeus called on God to bless them. But the sky grew abruptly dark, lightning scribbled a warning, clouds burst across the city, and for more than an hour, dogs rained from the heavens. Thousands of them, landing softly on all four paws, barking and howling, their fangs bared. Brother Thaddeus rushed to the cathedral. His followers shivered in fear and cringed in fright, dropped their stones and knives, and ran home. Michael was certain some gallant ancestor of Sticky had been there in the rain and the howling.
Rabbi Hirsch explained that through the magic of Kabbalah, Rabbi Loew could speak to all dogs and many birds, and they often came to him with warnings of the evil plots of Brother Thaddeus. That is how he learned of the planned revolution against Emperor Rudolf. Brother Thaddeus was telling his followers that the Emperor had gone mad and must be overthrown. They were storing arms, preparing for the day.
Late one night, while Michael watched, Rabbi Loew wrote a long, detailed letter to the Emperor, warning him of the great trouble that was brewing and asking him to protect the Jewish Quarter. He sealed the letter with wax and asked Michael to deliver it to the Castle. After all, Michael was a Shabbos goy. Nobody would stop him on the streets beyond the ghetto. The boy took the letter and slipped into the Prague night, through narrow alleys, where buildings leaned at strange angles and rats scurried in the dark. He hugged the shadowy walls of deserted squares, crossed the river into Mala Strana, and then began climbing climbing climbing to the walls of the Castle. When he came close, six guards appeared, their faces masked by iron visors, holding lances and giant axes. Growling and nasty, they yanked the letter from his hands and told him to go home. From the walls of the Castle he could see fires burning in the mountains. One guard laughed and said that these were happy fires. They are sending Jews to Hell, he said.