“The problem is simple,” the rabbi said. “The Golem is made of mud, yes. He is very large, yes. Very strong, yes. He can’t speak and he have to obey every order from Rabbi Loew. But he also have his own thinking, does his own plans. Worse, worse — he have the feelings of a human being.” He paused. “And after Brother Thaddeus is put in jail, after the great danger to the Jews is over — for a little while anyway — Rabbi Loew takes it easy. And so does the Golem. He looks so normal, gardening and that kind of stuff, Rabbi Loew even gives him a name: Yossel. Like Joseph. Joseph Golem.”
In his relaxation, Joseph Golem began to notice a young woman named Dvorele. She was an orphan. Her family had been destroyed by Brother Thaddeus’s followers, their house burned in one of those fires that had leveled so many Jewish homes in the countryside. After months of wandering, she had found refuge in the household of Rabbi Loew. There, she worked in the kitchen under the supervision of the rabbi’s wife, Pearl. She helped clean the rooms. She did laundry. She began to learn how to read and write. Michael could see her clearly: small and dark, with huge brown eyes, like Rosalie Caputo in the sixth grade at Sacred Heart, and speaking very little, as if still paralyzed by the horror that had taken the lives of her parents, her three brothers and two sisters.
“Joseph Golem watches her,” Rabbi Hirsch said, “and helps her with work, and soon — too bad! — love comes up in his heart.”
Michael thought of Boris Karloff in the Frankenstein movie, playing with the flowers and the little girl beside the lake. He saw the Golem trying to explain what he felt to Dvorele, how he tried to get her to sense the great stirring within his heart. But he couldn’t speak. He rolled his eyes. He looked sad. He put his hands to his forehead. He pointed at his heart and then at Dvorele, trying to make her understand. But she shied away from him, busying herself with peeling potatoes or dusting the bookshelves in Rabbi Loew’s study. Joseph Golem pined for her. At night, lying on his eight-foot cot in his cellar room, he sometimes wept.
One cold night, Rabbi Loew heard the great heaving sobs of Joseph Golem. He rose from his bed, lit a candle, and went down to visit the creature. At the sight of the Golem, turning and twisting in his bed, his teeth grinding and his hands kneading each other, the rabbi felt a great pity.
“Joseph Golem needs to say the words,” Rabbi Hirsch said, “but he does not have language. Not Yiddish. Not Hebrew. Not German. Not Czech. And love, it’s almost always about words.”
That night, Rabbi Loew comforted the giant Golem, whispering prayers, soothing his addled heart. Finally, Joseph Golem fell into a deep sleep. Rabbi Loew stared at him for a long time before returning to his own bed.
“He is thinking, time is short for this poor fellow,” Rabbi Hirsch said. “He needs to pray to find out what to do.”
But the next day, Rabbi Loew had to travel to Pilsen on rabbinical business. There was no time to pray for counsel from God. As soon as he departed, Joseph Golem approached Dvorele in the small garden of the rabbi’s house. It was a day in spring. Bees feasted on blooming flowers. Water played in the fountain that one of the Sephardim had built from memories of Andalusia. Joseph Golem smiled and took Dvorele’s tiny hand and pointed at the distant mountains.
Come with me, he seemed to be saying.
Come to the mountains of Bohemia, to their clear streams and green meadows.
Come, sweet Dvorele, and be with me.
But Dvorele had grown up beyond those mountains. And she thought that Joseph Golem wanted to return her to the horror she had escaped. She screamed. She screamed from deep within herself, from her heart and her lungs and her bowels. And she ran from Joseph Golem.
The Golem could not be hurt by knives or spears, but he suddenly erupted in rejection and rage. Michael pictured him toppling the fountain. Then he tore limbs off the beech trees. He smashed the shack where the gardener stored his tools. And in that wreckage, he found an axe.
Armed with an axe, he smashed the back gate of the garden and rushed into the city. In his wordless, heartbroken anger, he chopped at the wheels of carriages and the doors of the rich. He destroyed the carts of the vendors of fish and vegetables. He broke down the doors of the Jewish Town Hall and reduced walls and masonry to powder and rubble. Michael saw people fleeing before him. And to Joseph Golem this became another rejection, more fuel for his blazing, wordless anger.
Michael hid behind a vegetable cart, as one of the councillors hopped on a horse to overtake Rabbi Loew, who was on the road to Pilsen. But Joseph Golem continued his rampage through the ghetto. Doors, windows, fountains, gardens: all were torn up, battered, destroyed. He saw a painting of the mountains and slashed at it with the blade of his axe. It was as if the great creature was looking in the quarter for something he could never find.
Finally, around sundown, Rabbi Loew returned. As he stepped from his carriage, he ignored Michael. His eyes were taking in the wreckage. The rabbi found Joseph Golem sitting in a deserted square, his axe resting on his giant thigh. The creature’s eyes informed the rabbi that he was inconsolable. Rabbi Loew approached slowly, carefully, saying nothing. And for the first time, the Golem reacted in rage and rebellion against the man who had given him life. He threw his head back and released a wordless bellow that could be heard for seven miles. Then he snatched up his axe and began to march on Rabbi Loew. Michael thought: He must see Rabbi Loew as the true cause of his grief. If Rabbi Loew had not raised him from the mud of the Vltava, Joseph Golem would not be suffering the anguish of love.
The Golem stepped forward. He raised his axe. Before Rabbi Loew could give him an order, a small voice rang out sharply in the empty square.
“Stop!”
It was Dvorele.
She walked slowly into the space between the rabbi and the Golem. The great creature lowered the axe.
“Put it down, Joseph,” she said softly.
The creature was wary, suspicious. He glanced at Rabbi Loew and then at the girl. But she was now fearless, as if God had put some iron into her. She came forward and took Joseph Golem’s free hand. The axe fell from the other. She stood then on the tips of her toes, and reached up, and touched his face. The Golem fell awkwardly into a sitting position. Dvorele kissed his cheek. The rage seeped out of him. He seemed to melt.
“Come,” she said to Joseph Golem, turning finally to Rabbi Loew. “Let us go home.”
Holding his hand, she led the Golem back to Rabbi Loew’s house. The rabbi held open the door and the Golem stepped into the vestibule.
“You must sleep,” Dvorele said to him.
The Golem nodded. Rabbi Loew led him upstairs to his own bedroom. He took pillows from the bed, which was too small for Joseph Golem, and laid them on the floor. The Golem was soon asleep.
Rabbi Loew moved quickly. He called for the two assistants who had gone with him that night to the banks of the Vltava. He took the silver spoon from a secret cupboard. He dressed completely in white. He removed the shem from its parchment case. Then he stood at the foot of the Golem, as on the Vltava he had stood at the head. He and his assistants prayed over the sleeping creature. And then Rabbi Loew slipped the shem into the Golem’s mouth and in a grieving voice said the words from the Kabbalah, this time in reverse.
The Golem’s huge body began to twitch. His eyes opened, full of fear and loss.
And then he crumbled into clay.
The assistants separated the clay from the creature’s garments. They shook out the garments and folded them neatly. One assistant brought in two boxes resembling coffins. Rabbi Loew used the silver spoon to pack the clay into one box and tied it shut. The assistants lined the other with thick brocaded cloth, and Rabbi Loew placed the shem and the silver spoon on top. The assistants used nails to seal this coffin.