The Rabbi’s eyes were wet; but when he spoke his voice was steady. “Perhaps with time, and practice, it will become easier. And I will help you, as best I can.” He turned away, whisked a hand over his eyes; when he turned back, he was smiling. “But now, let us talk of something more cheerful. If I’m to introduce you to my nephew, I must tell him your name.”
She frowned. “I don’t have one.”
“My point exactly. It’s far past time that you were named. Would you like to choose a name for yourself?”
She thought a moment. “No.”
The Rabbi was taken aback. “But you must have a name.”
“I know.” She smiled. “But I’d like you to choose it for me.”
The Rabbi wanted to object: he’d hoped that the act of choosing a name would help her toward independence. But then he admonished himself. She was still like a child in so many ways, and one did not expect a child to name itself. That honor fell to the parent. In this, she had grasped the meaning of the thing better than he.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ve always liked the name Chava for a girl. It was my grandmother’s name, and I was very fond of her.”
“Chava,” the Golem said. The ch was a soft and rolling sound in the back of the throat, the ava like a spoken sigh. She repeated it quietly to herself, testing it while the Rabbi looked on, amused.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and she did.
“Then it’s yours.” He raised his hands over her, and closed his eyes. “Blessed One who protected our forefathers and led us out of bondage, watch over your daughter Chava. May her days be marked by peace and prosperity. May she be an aid, a comfort, and a protector to her people. May she have the wisdom and courage to see her way forward on the path that you have laid before her. Be this the will of the Almighty.”
And the Golem whispered, “Amen.”
All things considered, it was not one of Michael Levy’s better days.
He stood behind his paper-strewn desk with the harried air of a man reacting to a dozen crises at once. In his hand was a letter informing him, with regret, that the ladies who volunteered to clean on Sundays would no longer be doing so; their Ladies’ Workers League had schismed and then dissolved, and with it their Charitable Action Committee. Ten minutes earlier, the head housekeeper had informed him that a number of that week’s residents had arrived with dysentery, and they were going through bed linens at an alarming rate. And, as always, there was the almost physical pressure of the nearly two hundred new immigrants who bunked in the dormitories that hung above his head. And as long as they were under his roof, Michael was responsible for their welfare.
The Hebrew Sheltering House was a way station where men fresh from the Old World could pause, and gather their wits, before jumping headfirst into the gaping maw of the New. All were allowed to stay five days at the Sheltering House, during which they were fed and clothed and given a cot to sleep on. At the end of those five days they had to depart. Some moved in with distant relatives, or took the peddler’s path; others were recruited by the factories and slept in filthy flophouse hammocks for five cents a night. When he could, Michael tried to steer the men away from the worst of the sweatshops.
Michael Levy was twenty-seven years old. He had the sort of pink, wide-cheeked face that was cursed to perpetual youth. Only his eyes showed the years: they were deeply lined and shadowed, by reading and fatigue. He was taller than his uncle Avram, and something of a scarecrow, the result of never slowing down and eating a proper meal. His friends liked to joke that with his ink-stained cuffs and tired eyes he looked more like a scholar than a social worker. He would reply that it was only fitting, as his work was more of an education than a classroom could ever offer.
There was pride, and defensiveness, in his answer. His teachers, his aunt and uncle, his friends, even his all-but-absent father: all had expected him to go to university. And they’d been shocked and dismayed when young Michael announced his plan to dedicate himself to social work, and the betterment of the lives around him.
“Of course that’s all good and noble,” a friend told him. “Which one of us isn’t committed to the same thing? But you’ve got a first-rate mind—use that to help people. Why let it go to waste?” The friend in question wrote for one of the Socialist Labor Party papers. Every week his name ran above a moving paean to the Working Man, each turning on a scene of brotherly solidarity that he’d happened to witness—usually, conveniently enough, on the day before his deadline.
Michael stood firm, if somewhat wounded. His friends wrote their articles, they went to marches and listened to speeches, they debated the future of Marxism over coffee and strudel—but Michael heard an airy emptiness in their rhetoric. He didn’t accuse his friends of taking an easy road, but neither could he follow them. He was too honest a soul; he had never learned to deceive himself.
The only one who understood was his uncle Avram. It was the other change in Michael’s life that the Rabbi couldn’t countenance.
“Where is it written that a man must turn his back on his faith to do good in the world?” the Rabbi had asked, staring in horror at his nephew’s bare head, at the neat sideburns where sidelocks had once hung. “Who taught you this? Those philosophers you read?”
“Yes, and I agree with them. Not with everything, maybe, but at least that as long as we keep to our old beliefs, we’ll never find our place in the modern world.”
His uncle laughed. “Yes, this wonderful modern world that has rid us of all ills, of poverty and corruption! What fools we are, not to cast our shackles aside!”
“Of course there’s much that still needs changing! But it does no good to chain ourselves to a backward—” He stopped. The word had slipped from his mouth.
His uncle’s expression grew even darker. Michael saw he had two options: recant and apologize, or own what he’d said.
“I’m sorry, Uncle, but it’s how I feel,” said Michael. “I look at what we call faith, and all I see is superstition and subjugation. All religions, not just Judaism. They create false divisions, and enslave us to fantasies, when we need to focus on the here and now.”
His uncle’s face was stone. “You believe me to be an instrument of subjugation.”
The instinct to protest was on his lips—of course not! Not you, Uncle!—but he held back. He didn’t want to add hypocrisy to his list of offenses.
“Yes,” he said. “I wish I felt otherwise. I know how much good you’ve done—how could I forget all those visits to the sick? And the time the Rosens’ store burned down? But good deeds should come from our natural instinct toward brotherhood, not from tribalism! What about the Italians who owned the butcher’s shop next to the Rosens? What did we do for them?”
“I can’t take care of everyone!” snapped the Rabbi. “So perhaps I’m guilty of only looking after my own kind. That too is a natural instinct, whatever your philosophers might say.”
“But we must grow beyond it! Why reinforce our differences, and keep ancient laws, and never know the joy of breaking bread with our neighbors?”
“Because we are Jews!” his uncle shouted. “And that is how we live! Our laws remind us of who we are, and we gain strength from them! You, who are so eager to throw away your past—what will you replace it with? What will you use to keep the evil in Man from outbalancing the good?”
“Laws that apply to everyone,” said Michael. “That put all men on equal footing. I’m no anarchist, Uncle, if that’s what worries you!”
“But an atheist? Is that what you are now?”
He