CHAPTER 5
“Mother, we promised we would help her in the garden.”
Her mother was pacing back and forth in their tiny kitchen, looking out the small window over the sink with each pass. The sun was now above the treetops; it was mid-morning. Somehow her expression grew more dire with each glance. Outside the fighting continued, and the military had dispatched soldiers to support the Milicja Obywatelska in Lodz. Soon there would be curfews. Soon they would be unable to leave their homes. According to the radio, it had already started in Katowice. Her mother was growing more and more unglued with each day, and her pacing was making Katrina anxious.
“Mother, we would be safer at the temple anyway. Come, let’s gather our food and some clothing and run across the street. We will be fine.”
Finally her mother turned to her, her eyes red, her lips quivering. She had not slept all night and it was showing on her face. She was even more pale than usual and the lines on her face were deepened by her nerves. Katrina knew that her mother had missed the darkest days of the War but she had seen plenty under the communists, and this was how it always started; the slingshot breaking the glass was always repaid with a spray of bullets from the government. She was literally wringing her hands in her housecoat as she paced.
Katrina pushed past her mother and busied herself with preparations. She collected their meager food stores and shoved them into a bag, took their small radio, and looked toward their bedrooms before deciding to skip the changes of clothes. They were across the street from the temple. She could return if needed. She had to get her mother out of the house before she went completely insane.
“Come, Mother, we will be fine.”
Her mother clutched her hand, and darted her head out the door into the hallway. As Katrina tugged, her mother whispered “być ostrożnym!” and they were off.
Gripping her mother’s hand, she pushed her forward into the hall, closing and locking the door behind them. For no good reason, she tip-toed down the hall and down the stairs. She imagined them thieves, treading so quietly, their eyes darting about, but the less people that saw them, the less likely they would be pegged as sympathizers and beaten, interrogated, or worse. Katrina cracked the door leading outside, and was drenched in the sounds of hand to hand combat. Katrina looked behind her at her mother, who was barely keeping it together, quivering as she clutched her daughter. She kept repeating to Katrina, “być ostrożnym! “być ostrożnym!” For some reason, her constant warnings to be careful began to make her angry.
“Cichy! Just follow me and be quiet!”
There was no way to wait for the right time; the fighting would be going on for hours. Clutching her mother’s hand in hers, her bag of food under her arm, she opened the door fully and stepped out. They walked briskly toward the door of the temple, praying to God that it would be unlocked. Yehuda would be expecting them. As they approached, the door swung open and her head poked out. She must have been posted as sentry for Jews seeking sanctuary.
“Come, quickly!” Yehuda’s left arm appeared from behind the door, waving them in briskly. She appeared almost as hysterical as her own mother, but had the wherewithal to slam and lock the door the minute they entered. She took one last glance out the old window before turning to them. Yehuda glanced down at the bag in Katrina’s arm, then took a hard, appraising look at her mother. Her mother darted her eyes to and fro, then looked behind her at the locked door. Yehuda looked at Katrina and set her lips together and nodded just enough to tell her she understood.
Yehuda’s complexion had an ageless quality, olive and smooth. Her dark hair (Katrina assumed it was a wig), normally coiffed, hung loose and appeared almost disheveled, revealing what was likely a more accurate suggestion of her true age. After her almost imperceptible nod of approval to Katrina, Yehuda took a forceful step toward her mother.
“Come, Elisheva, let me make some tea.”
Yehuda smiled and winked at Katrina as she took her mother’s arm and led her into the rustic temple kitchen. Her mother shuffled beside Yehuda, hunched over with the gait of a woman twice her age. As they disappeared behind the drape screening the entrance to the kitchen from the temple proper, Katrina was left by herself in the vestibule. The thick stone walls silenced much of the fighting outside, leaving an unsettling hum punctuated occasionally by a distinct yell. In her apron she fingered the old letter, folded neatly in half. She saw the back of Rabbi Benjamin Cejtlin at his desk in his study, reading what appeared to be a very large book. The back of the chair was railed, revealing the Rabbi’s black suit and the fringes of his tallis poking out from underneath his jacket. The Rabbi seemed lost in his work, seemingly unaware of the melee outside. This made her smile. Something about his apparent ignorance of the unrest outside filled her with a content feeling, a safe feeling, a belief that beyond the walls of this temple the world may be rent in two, but here, in God’s home, there was still sanctuary.
Katrina wandered about the temple, bathing in that feeling of safety, and was about to sit down when the first knock came. She felt an icy stab in her guts as the knock came again, a pounding at the door; it was not a request for access; it was a demand. Was it the Milicja Obywatelska? Was it one of the congregation in trouble? She began approaching the window to look out when she heard her mother’s voice come out in a hiss.
“Nie! Stay right there!”
Her mother was standing at the entrance to the kitchen, pulling aside the floral patterned cloth with one hand and pointing at her with the other. Yehuda peered through the small kitchen window from a distance, then turned to them.
“Milicja.”
Rabbi Cejtlin came walking up, tall and regal in his black, threadbare suit, and put his hands on his hips and looked around him. Then he turned to Katrina, and spoke calmly in a hushed, but firm command.
“Go in the kitchen, all of you.”
The tone of his voice did not leave room for any questions, and they filed into the kitchen, quickly filling the floor space to capacity. The Rabbi’s wife remained by the drape, watching her husband.
The Rabbi approached the door, reaching out to open it as the pounding resumed. The Rabbi waited for the pounding to cease, then unlocked the door. Katrina could hear the bolt sliding in the catch. Almost immediately the door swung in toward them, leaving nothing to see but the door itself and the Rabbi. Arms shoved into the space and pushed the Rabbi backwards. He wind milled his arms as he tried to right himself, but eventually tumbled toward the rough, tile floor of the temple. Yehuda stifled a scream as several policemen filed in and surrounded the Rabbi. Katrina did not recognize them; they were Highway Patrol, in their gray jackets and black pants. One kicked the Rabbi in the side, causing him to twist in pain. The last policeman turned to the door, looked out left and right, then shut the door, slamming home the bolt to lock it. He remained at the door, his arms crossed, turning to the women huddled in the kitchen. When his eyes reached Katrina, they traveled up and down her body, a dirty, painful gaze, one that made her nauseous. She was reminded of a time in school when she witnessed several boys beating another, smaller boy. They had a lookout posted just like this man, although that lookout was more interested in the beating than this one, clearly interested in something else. The man had a smirk that seemed to dare them to emerge from the kitchen, to dare them to try to interfere.
The officers circled the Rabbi and began taunting him, calling him names.
“Where are they, świnia? Where have you hidden them?”
The Rabbi looked up from pained eyes and got up on one elbow, trying to stand, but another policeman kicked his elbow, causing him to fall back to the ground. The question was repeated, and the Rabbi responded, his teeth clenched.
“Where is who? I do not know what you are talking about.”
The policemen looked at each other, then turned to the one that was the apparent leader. Something on his collar set him apart from the others, but Katrina could not see what was stitched upon those collars. This le
ader withdrew his sidearm and pointed it down at the Rabbi.
“I will ask you one more time, pig, where are you hiding them?”
Katrina stood behind her mother, terrified, only able to see the side of one of the officers. Her mother was shaking, and began emitting a high pitched sound similar to the winter winds that came down from the mountains, warning of the first snows of the season. Katrina’s mind emptied in fear, and as she cast about looking for something to bring her solace, she glanced out the window and saw, beyond the fighting, the ancient oaks at the very edge of Lodz. It was too far to be of any good, but still, she closed her eyes and tried to remember the words of the letter.
Golem!
She dug through her memories but could not recall the words. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she forgot that the letter was still in her apron, folded neatly, just inches from her hands. Her mother’s whimpering grew louder, as did the yelling of the officers. She heard the unmistakable sound of the action of a firearm. Her mother took a step back and pushed her backwards, and in doing so, pressed her hands against her apron. The crinkling sound of the letter reminded her and she shoved her hands into her apron and withdrew the letter. First silently, then in whispers, then louder, Katrina began chanting, gaining confidence as she repeated the words.
“In the name of Yisrael, I invite you, Nehkahmah, come to me. In the name of Yisrael, I invite you, Nehkahmah, come to me.”
Katrina’s mother turned to her in sheer terror, her eyes wide, her lower lip quivering. Even Yehuda turned away from her husband’s impending murder to look at Katrina in clear, open mouthed wonder, tears hanging heavy in her eyes. Yehuda silently mouthed the words the book! but Katrina could not hear her voice. Time seemed to have slowed almost to a complete stop.
Upon uttering those words, she felt in them a power that she had never felt before, never during services at the temple, never when whispering her love for a boy in town, never even on the highest holy days when she prayed. The words fell from her lips and seemed to take a life of their own. The words had actual weight to them, almost like the weight of the wind when a kite is aloft. She felt the tug of the words as they escaped her lips. She could almost visualize them leaving her mouth and sailing on strange wings to the one thing that could receive those words. She hoped her aim was true.
Katrina watched as they all turned their heads back to the impending murder of the Rabbi. The Rabbi was shaking his head, his hands out before his face, a futile gesture. The policemen were clearly not pleased with whatever he was saying.
Katrina’s mother had come close to passing out and was trying to steady herself against her daughter. She was babbling something unintelligible about Nazis and her own father. Her mother stopped suddenly as the ring leader lifted his pistol and pointed it at the Rabbi’s head. As they watched, the policemen looked to their right, distracted, and for Katrina, time began to move in fast-forward. The air grew heavy, thick, and cold. Katrina would later swear that she could see her breath as she panted out in excitement and fear.
As the women cringed behind the drape, the lead policeman lifted his sidearm and began shooting up and past the Rabbi, his fellow officers reaching for their weapons. The lead shooter went dry and reached for more ammunition, but it was too late. The women saw a shadow spread across the officers, then suddenly, a flash of movement. The officer guarding the door stood frozen, his face transfixed in fear. Then the creature was upon them all, standing beside the fallen Rabbi. It made no sound. In fact, the only sound was that of the bones and flesh of the attacking policemen. There were snaps and cracks, and within seconds, six officers lay dead around the Rabbi, their bodies contorted into unnatural positions, their faces twisted in pain and agony.
When it was over, the Rabbi was on his elbows, scuttling backwards with his heels and elbows, toward the kitchen. Golem stood facing the door, seemingly in suspended animation. After such exertion a man would be panting, out of breath, wiping sweat from his brow. Golem was motionless. Rabbi Cejtlin reached the floral drapes and stopped, his wife kneeling down to wrap her arms around him. There was blood trickling from a nostril, and from the corner of his mouth. Katrina and her mother stood, unmoving, terrified, elated, thrilled. Finally, Katrina came forward.
She took several steps closer to Golem, and took her first hard look at it (or him? she thought to herself). He was much taller than any man she had ever seen, at least seven feet tall. He was shaped like a man, although his physique was difficult to discern; he was like a man dressed for deep winter, his torso disguised by layers of thick clothing. He had the outline of a face, possibly a line where a mouth would be, but nothing else. He had two arms, two legs, but no actual fingers or toes. They were limbs on an elemental level. He was tannish-brown, a color that looked very familiar to Katrina. She quickly identified that color: the basement. It was the color of the dirt from the basement of the temple. Even his texture was that of hard packed earth. It then occurred to Katrina that Golem had emerged from the corner of the temple containing the entrance to the basement. She had assumed, for some reason, that Golem would come from the woods, the stand of ancient oaks far beyond her window. Had Golem been in the basement this entire time? She visualized the basement, then, and thought of the large depression in the ground of the basement, the depression into which she had fallen after tripping on the edge. Now, with Golem before her, she realized he was approximately the same size as that depression.
There was an awkward silence as she inspected him. Finally, she reached out a tentative arm, closer, closer. She heard her mother behind her whispering “no!” but it was too late. Katrina lightly touched her fingers upon Golem’s arm. It was ice cold. It felt exactly like the earth of the temple basement. She stroked his arm briefly. Absently, she breathed his name. “Golem.”
The Golem sprang to life, turning toward his name. There was no breath, no further action, just a right face toward her. Katrina stumbled backwards in surprise, shuffling, trying to regain her composure, but failed, instead dropping flat to the stone floor on her rear. Her mother half stifled a scream. Katrina herself wasn’t sure whether to scream or laugh and only chose not to laugh in light of the dead men surrounding her. As they all watched, Golem turned back to those dead bodies, the police men, and to the surprise of all of them, knelt and grabbed the first body. Golem stood with the body, embracing it like a lost brother, then pushed the body into itself. The officer disappeared into the Golem, swallowed up and gone. Golem systematically did the same with all six of the dead officers.
Katrina glanced over at Rabbi Cejtlin and saw that he was davening, in silent prayer, rocking backward and forward. Katrina wondered to herself whether he was thanking God or praying Golem would go away.
Katrina felt relief that the bodies were gone, and revolted for having such cold thoughts. She looked down and realized that she had fallen but inches away from some of the blood spatter caused by Golem’s savage attack. Looking closer, she was stunned. The blood across the temple floor was slowly being absorbed into Golem’s block feet. As she watched, the pools were pulled in the direction of Golem, traveling in thin rivulets toward him. Katrina followed the dark liquid’s path until the floor was spotless again, and her eyes then traveled up Golem’s feet to his chest, then head. Golem appeared bigger, stronger, more. . . more human. Before, Golem’s arms ended in, quite literally, balls of dirt. His legs had been large blocks, roughly carved from the earth. Now, he had the beginnings of fingers and toes. And when she glanced up at his head, she saw a rudimentary face. There were depressions where there should be eyes, the outcropping of an undeveloped nose, even the most basic lumps for ears.
He was evolving.
Katrina tried to focus again on the creature she had summoned. Golem seemed to have returned to his semi-hibernation. As she stood, Rabbi Cejtlin approached her from behind and put his hand on her shoulder. She kept her eyes on her Golem. The Rabbi looked down at her, then followed her gaze across the floor to his
savior.
“Katrina, where did you learn those words?”
Katrina was so engrossed in the hulk before her that the Rabbi’s words floated around her a moment, incoherent, until finally she processed them and responded.
“The book. Tzippi’s book.”
She felt the Rabbi’s fingers on her shoulders tighten, becoming uncomfortable, then they relaxed.
“Tzippi? Tzippi Isserles? The Rabbi’s wife?”
Katrina did not respond. The Rabbi looked down at Katrina, then across the floor at Golem. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then fell silent. There was nothing left to say. Katrina stood gazing at her silent sentinel, then turned finally to the Rabbi, his hands falling off her shoulders and back to his sides.
“Rabbi, now what? What do I do with him?”
The Rabbi continued to stare at Golem, and finally tore his eyes away to look at Katrina. He tried to give her a warm smile, but what appeared was strained and tired.
“Dear Katrina, somehow you brought him to life. I know nothing of golems, of magic. I imagine that you will have to decide what to do with him. I believe he will only answer to you.”
Rabbi Cejtlin straightened his jacket and took a step back, re-joining his wife. Katrina turned her attention to her mother who, not surprisingly, remained in the kitchen. Her high pitched whine had disappeared.
Katrina turned and stared at her charge for a while, gathering her thoughts. She could send Golem out into the streets to fight off all the police, all the soldiers, but in the end, she thought, it would probably bring ruin upon them all.
What would Golem do? Would it destroy everything in his path? Would he kill and swallow every policeman he found, every soldier? She ran her eyes across his rudimentary features on his face and wondered, if he killed enough, would he become human? Finally, she steeled herself and spoke.
“Golem, please look at me.”
Golem turned again and faced her; he had no eyes, but she could tell he was focused on her using whatever elementary tools he had for vision.
“Golem, thank you for protecting us. Would you please return to your home until we next call upon you?”
Golem remained motionless, and for a moment she wondered whether Golem could say no, or feel disappointment, or anger. Before she completed the thought, however, Golem turned, and advanced toward the basement. Katrina watched him lurch off, then called out to him. It was almost a whisper.
“Golem, one more thing please.”
Golem stopped moving, still facing the bare wooden door leading down to the basement.
“Please listen for us. If you can do that, please listen for us, and come to us if we are in danger.”
Golem did not acknowledge her request; he merely continued to plod toward the door. He made no sound as he crept downstairs.