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The Berlin Golem

by Geoffrey Hart

Previously published as: Hart, G. 2019. The Berlin Golem. p. 223-239 in: S. MacGregor and L. Stephens (eds.) Alchemy and Artefacts. Tesseracts Twenty Two. Edge Publishing, Calgary.

My first memories are of bitter cold, and of floating in a void. I hear nothing, see nothing, and smell nothing. There is only me. I have some sense of a torso, but it feels as if my limbs have been severed. In time, the cold fades, and I begin to feel my limbs, but they aren’t talking to me and don’t respond when I urge them to move. I can feel eyes, ears, and a nose, but they don’t respond to my urgings either. I should be terrified, but other than that ghost-limb discomfort, there is no fear. Also no curiosity, anger, or any other emotion one might expect upon waking in a strange place, cut off from one’s body and senses. I have waited before, and I will wait again, so I do that.

Time passes, and now I can hear a rich voice, speaking unintelligible words. It takes me more time to realize that the words are incomprehensible because they’re in at least three languages (German, Hebrew, and Yiddish). Once I understand this, their meaning gradually becomes clear. I recognize the Hebrew, at least; it is from the Pentateuch, though how I know this I cannot say. Thinking back, it is clear most of those early words were from Genesis — appropriate enough for a newborn soul such as mine — but the voice has long since moved on to other books of the Pentateuch that feel less relevant.

Knowing there are words, I suddenly feel my tongue, and my mouth fills with the taste of dirt. It’s not unpleasant, not really. It’s... earthy. And the words bring me comfort, for they mean that I’m not alone — and that someone considers me worthy of their time and attention. My tongue twitches along with the spoken words, and I savor that feeling and the sense of shared purpose. If I felt fear, this would eliminate it. I don’t fear, but the knowledge of my value brings a warmth that eases the chill. I feel an urge to smile, but my lips have not yet returned to me, and I must wait.

But inside, I smile.

***

I feel my eyelids twitch, and all at once, the voice ceases. Then it switches to German. “Ah, good. You’re awake.”

I try to speak, but all that emerges is a moan and wet, sloppy sounds, as if I were Demosthenes practicing oration with a mouthful of gravel. How do I know about Demosthenes?

“Don’t worry that you can’t move yet. I expect that it’s perfectly normal after awakening.”

I moan again. My tongue feels more nimble, but meaningful words elude it.

“Don’t try to talk just yet.”

I feel a hand on my forehead, and my eyes open. It takes a moment before I realize I am looking up at the ceiling. Then I see a seamed face leaning over, surrounded by white hair below and a grizzled beard above. Inverted, I abruptly realize, because he stands at my head, but even inverted, I can see the twist in his spine.

“I’m Igor Berliner, but please just call me Igor. I’ve been your shomer, sort of. It’s my pleasure to meet you and welcome you to the world.”

I think, Are you my creator? but only a moan emerges from my lips. I feel my heavy brows furrow in frustration.

“Rest. Relax. I will read to you, and in time things will come clear.” The voice switches back to Hebrew. Deuteronomy this time. He speaks of entry to the holy land, the need to honor the customs of one’s people, and of the promise of salvation through repentance. But it is not clear why this is relevant to me: Have I entered the holy land, do I have a people whose customs I must learn, is there some deed for which I must repent, and do I have any hope of salvation? I sigh. All will become clear in time. The voice drones on, and I go with it, tongue twitching in harmony with the speaker’s enunciations.

After a time, the feeling of gravel in my mouth abates and I can move air through my mouth and nose without sounding like a drowning man. “Who am I?” I croak.

“Well done! Not so well asked, unfortunately. As of yet, you have no name. But if it were up to me, I’d name you Yossi.”

“Why Yossi?”

“Your ancestor, the Golem of Prague, was named Josef, but nicknamed Yossele. Hence, Yossi. A proud name for you to reincarnate.”

No other name suggests itself. I manage to nod, and Igor goes back to reading his book to me.

***

Upstairs, the door slams and I hear heavy steps moving across the ceiling. Igor puts down his book.

“The master has returned.”

“Master?”

Igor chuckles. “Judah Halevi, my employer. His father named him after the Spanish physician-philosopher, but he’s no physician and only an indifferent philosopher. Still, he pays well, and who else would employ a crippled alterkacker like me?”

The door to the basement opens, and the master flings himself down the stairs. He’s a younger man, his thick beard still black and his face unlined, save for a deep furrow between his eyes that seems permanently engraved there. He wears richly woven robes, stained with something thick and black.

“Is it still lying there? Get it moving. We have need of it.”

“What happened, Judah?”

“The Gott verdammt Hitlerjugend. They cast pig’s blood upon me. Now I’ll have to burn these robes.” He crosses the room and seizes my arm, lifting it from my slab and letting it fall heavily back with a dull slapping noise.

“We’re making progress, Judah. His eyes are open, and his tongue has grown sufficiently nimble he can pronounce a few words. Give him time. In a day, he’ll be up and about, skipping like a young goat.”

The younger man snorts. “See that he is.” He storms up the stairs once more, slamming the door behind him.

I find my voice for the first time. “Is he my creator? My god?”

“Yes to the first, but no to the second. You were created from the same dust and clay as Adam, the first of us. So yes, he created you. But not even Judah is so arrogant as to believe he gave you the spark of life. That would be an act of hubris for the ages. Not that this has stopped others from believing in their own genius.”

“Then where did I come from?”

Igor chuckles. “A question that has obsessed countless sages throughout the millennia since we were first cast from the Garden. Should you happen to learn the answer, please feel free to tell me.”

His words are not comfortable, but the humor behind them is. “I surely shall do so, Igor.”

“Good. In the meantime, let’s see if we can get you on your feet.” He forces his thin arms under my shoulders and, groaning, tries to lever me from my slab. I don’t move so much as a centimeter.

“If it wouldn’t kill you, could you perhaps help?” Igor cocks an eyebrow at me.

“For you, my only friend, I shall do my best.” I have no idea what passes for muscles beneath my smooth and heavy skin, but whatever they are, they obey me, however slowly. I sit up.

“Bravo! We have, however briefly, achieved verticality.”

“I’m glad to help you, Igor.”

“Can you stand?”

I ease my legs over the edge of the slab. Igor nods approvingly, but nonetheless takes a judicious step to the side. “So far, so good.”

But when I attempt to slide from the slab to the floor, I fall on my face, the flat slap! of clay on stone echoing in the basement. When I rise, shaky but stable, Igor’s hands go to my face. “Here, let me.” There’s a feeling of tension, and my nose returns to its former position. “Still a face only a mother could love, but at least a mother would recognize it once more.”

“Thank you, Igor.”

“Thank me by walking, so Judah will have one less thing about which to kvetch.”

I comply, slowly but gaining in confidence, until at last I am comfortable and stable on my feet. Skipping like a young goat will be a challenge for another day, but at least Igor is beaming at my progress.

***

I wake to a small but not inconsiderable weight upon my chest, accompanied by a rumbling vibration like that of the traffic on the street that must lie outside our home. The word cat comes to mind, and I reach out instinctively to run my hand through its fur. With a screech, it flees the room like a hand-warmer flung from a catapult. I feel a distinct sadness, followed by a wave of relief. I’m still working on fine motor skills, and might have crushed it. Like all the other knowledge in my head, I wonder where this knowledge came from. No answer is apparent. But now I have another reason to improve my dexterity. I rise cautiously and begin practicing the mobility exercises Igor has prescribed for me.

Some time later, the light comes on and I hear Igor’s steps on the stairs. They are distinctive; he is both lighter than Judah and slower. He always seems less rushed for time, but also his bad back must slow him terribly. I tell him of the cat, and he smiles and pats my shoulder, standing on tiptoes to reach. “Good for you: you’ve reinvented the Hippocratic oath.”

I pause a moment, then the memory floods back. “First, do no harm.”

“Precisely. It’s an ancient Greek thing, though Hippocrates undoubtedly learned it from my people. One of our key ethical points is that we must guide our behavior by the desire to avoid harm, before even the desire to do good.”

His words evoke a sudden poignancy in my breast. “Am I not one of your people?”

Igor’s eyes widen, and his mouth drops open. “Forgive me, Yossi. I do not know the answer to that question.”

I feel a sudden need to belong to something. “If not, then what could I do to become one?”

Igor is clearly seeking a delaying tactic. “Hmm... from your lack of clothes, it is easy to see that circumcision would not be an option. Nor are you female. A wiser man than me would be required to answer your question.”

“Is Judah that wiser man?”

Igor bites his lip, struggling again for a diplomatic answer. “You must be a Jew. Only a Jew would ask such vexing questions.” He sighs. “No, Yossi. Judah has an impressive body of knowledge — enough to create you, for instance, which is not a trivial feat. But knowledge is not wisdom.”

“What is the difference?”

Igor laughs. “A knowledgeable man would open a dictionary and tell you the answer. A wise man would know the difference without such aids, and could explain it in terms you would understand.” He sees something on my face, and his mirth disappears as he puts a hand on my hand. “I’m sorry, my friend; I did not mean to mock you. Laughter is how I survive in this sometimes horrible world.” He takes a long breath. “I would say that wisdom is the ability to apply knowledge to accomplish good in this world.”

“So is Judah wise?”

Igor shakes his head, sadness in his eyes. “Before he created you, I would have said yes. Now? Now we must wait to see what use he makes of you.”

“You say that as if I am nothing more than a tool.”

The sadness returns to Igor’s eyes. “You are certainly a tool that was shaped to fit his hand, and in his eyes, that is all you’ll ever be. But even a sledgehammer can be used to build, not destroy. It all comes down to how one uses the tool. More importantly, we Jews believe that although it is not inherently morally wrong to own a slave, we must treat them with the same care and respect that we would treat ourselves.”

“Am I a slave then, rather than a tool?”

Igor forces a laugh. “Definitely a Jew.” He pauses a moment, gaze gone distant. “My friend, I cannot say. Judah may perhaps think of you as such. I suppose the question of freedom comes down to whether you can disobey his request, and willingly suffer the consequences of that disobedience. There are undoubtedly more sophisticated tests, but that one may suffice for the moment.”

I pause a moment myself, then ask the difficult question. “Are you a slave, Igor?”

He laughs and pats my arm. “Always with the awkward questions. I would say no — and yes. No, because I can leave right now and never return if I am willing to accept the consequences. Yes, because with my bad back and age, I am unsuited for manual labor. Moreover, I lack any skills such as silvercraft that would gain me other employment. Last, not being a rabbi, there is little I can teach that others would pay me to learn.”

I pat him on the shoulder, offering comfort, and he winces. Evidently I still have a way to go before I can pet the cat. I sigh. “Why is everything so complicated?”

Igor smiles, this time without pain. “Presumably because Hashem would soon grow bored with a simple world. I know I would.” He straightens his back as much as he can, winces, then smiles up at me. “Enough philosophy for now. Let us work on your fine motor skills.”

So we do.

***

I wake again to the cat upon my chest. This time, I am more cautious: I lift my arm slowly, and hold my extended fingers up for inspection. The cat sniffs them, each in turn, and then, rumble growing in its chest, butts its head against my fingers. With exquisite care, I move my hand above it and stroke its fur. The cat tolerates this for a moment, then slashes at my hand. There is no pain, but clear score marks appear in the damp clay of my skin. The cat jumps down and walks away, leaving me to smooth away the signs of his disapproval.

I finish and am sitting up by the time someone comes to me. From the weight and pace of the steps, it is Judah rather than Igor. He descends the stairs in his usual hurry, then stands before me, critically assessing his creation.

“Good morning, Judah.”

He startles. “Don’t call me that.”

“What shall I call you then?”

“Master. You are my creation, and mine to command.”

I let that statement pass uncritically, my conversation with Igor yesterday still fresh in my mind. “Yes, Master.”

“Good. Now I need you to do something.” He turns and goes rummaging under the stairs. He returns with an iron horseshoe. “Bend this into a straight bar.”

I take it gently from his hands, and without any noticeable effort, bend it into a straight length of metal. His eyes widen.

“Excellent.” He looks around, then his eyes come to rest on the edge of the thick table that is my bed. “Now strike the corner of this table as if you mean to tear it off.”

I carefully judge the table and length of my arm, then reposition myself. Then with a controlled swing, I strike the corner of the table. There is a loud clang, and the thick metal bends downwards at a sharp angle.

Judah steps back, eyes gone wider. He is breathing faster than normal. “Excellent! Now hand me the horseshoe.”

I comply, and he steps back, takes a deep breath, and swings the bar hard towards my arm. There is a hollow slapping noise as it embeds itself in the clay. I feel the impact, but there is no pain. Judah, in contrast, is rubbing his hand and frowning.

“Ow!”

“I’m sorry, Master.”

“It’s not your fault, golem. I should have been more careful.”

I hesitate. “My name is Yossi, not golem.”

“Is it now? And who told you that?”

“Igor. He says it was the name of the Prague golem, and thus a suitable name for me.”

“Did he, now? I shall have words with him when he returns. But in the meantime, golem shall be your name. You are a creation, not a man, and should aspire no higher than to be my willing tool.”

“Igor tells me I am no tool, and that Jews no longer keep slaves.”

“Igor thinks too highly of himself. He will need to be reminded of his place.”

I feel a wave of regret at having caused trouble for my friend. “Please do not discipline him. It is my fault for aspiring to more.”

Judah frowns at me. “Yes, it is. But would you have done so without his encouragement?”

“I think... yes. He is always telling me I have too many questions.”

“He’s right in that. One thing we learn in this life: accept your lot.”

“And what is my lot, Master?”

“To serve me as is your duty to your creator.”

The thought passes through my mind that though Judah is the creator of my physical shell, he is not the creator of me. That skill lies beyond him. But Judah has inadvertently taught me one aspect of wisdom: that sometimes it is best not to say what one thinks and to hold one’s own counsel. Judah turns on his heel and leaves, and I spend a few moments smoothing over the damaged clay where he struck me with the horseshoe.

***

Igor is holding the straightened horseshoe. “Remind me never to anger you, Yossi.”

“You could never anger me, my friend.”

His eyes smile at me. “My wife would beg to differ.” I hold my counsel. “Well, then, what shall we do with our day today?”

I change the subject. “Did Judah discipline you for what you have taught me? He threatened to do so.”

Igor’s smile widens. “Judah is sometimes like the quacking of ducks. Much fuss, and little meaning. One learns to bow one’s head and nod acceptance until his quacking runs down and he changes topics.”

“I’m glad.” The image of quacking ducks amuses me. “When I asked him whether I was a slave, he avoided the issue. He reminded me of my place: as a tool shaped to his hand.”

Igor shakes his head. “No. You are unquestionably a man like me.” He smirks. “Well perhaps not quite like me. I’m more handsome. But a man nonetheless.”

“How can you know this?”

Igor laughs outright. “We Talmudic scholars have a saying: if it quacks like a duck, it is probably a duck.”

“Then Judah is a duck?”

Igor opens his mouth to reply, then his eyes narrow a moment. “You, my friend, turn my words on me as if you were a Talmudic scholar yourself. I half suspect you of having a sense of humor.”

“If it laughs like a duck...” I say.

Igor erupts in laughter, slapping his knee and hooting. After a time, his mirth runs down, and he hauls himself up to sit upon the edge of the table, gasping. Then he notices the bent corner. “What happened here?”

“Judah asked me to demonstrate my strength.”

Igor passes his hand over the bent metal. “Can you restore this to its original condition?”

I comply, effortlessly.

Igor’s eyes widen. “Ir zent a groys aun shtark mentsh.”

It takes me a moment to translate. “Yes: big and strong, as I was designed to be.”

“Let’s see what else you can do.” And we spend the day testing and improving my mobility.

***

The next morning, Judah comes to get me. “Get up. I need you to accompany me in the streets.”

“Yes, Master.” I rise and follow him up the stairs, the risers groaning under my weight. He holds the door open, and I pass through, stopping a moment to gaze at the street around me. A phrase comes to mind: das Getto. When he steps out onto the landing, I notice that he has placed a white armband with a blue star of David on it around his bicep.

“Stop sightseeing and follow me.”

He brushes past me, and I follow, slowly and ponderously. Around me, other citizens — also wearing the white and blue armband — see me and recoil, eyes going wide. They are many, densely packed, but within moments we are walking in a great bubble, the crowds flowing around us, nobody coming within metres of us. Some retreat so quickly, they push others into the heaps of trash that have accumulated on the sidewalks, and are spilling into the street. I assume my appearance must be fearsome, and resolve to ask Igor for a mirror at first opportunity.

“Master?”

“Yes, golem?”

“Why is there so much trash?”

He snorts. “Because the verdammt Germans like it that the trash of their society drowns in its own trash.”

I reflect on this for a moment. “But are we not also Germans?”

He snorts again. “You are a lump of mud into which I have breathed life. You are nothing. I am a German by birth, but denied that status by faith. Think on that, and be silent.”

I obey, for there is nothing to be gained by fighting with him in public, and much to lose if he suspects I have the power to disobey.

We come to an intersection in the road, where the streets suddenly open up and become simultaneously less populated and scrupulously clean. Looking back, I see a prominent sign on the post that bears the street names: Jüdischer Wohnbezirk. It means Jewish quarter. We continue walking, and the few people on the street see us and run. All but a group of youths, clad in light brown shirts and black shorts. As we approach them, they exchange nervous glances. Then they gather their courage and move to block our path.

The leader accosts Judah. “Hey, Juden! You’re not wanted here. Go back to your ghetto.”

We walk amidst them and stop, surrounded. Judah clears his throat. “I am German, like you, and have the same right to walk these streets as you do.”

“You are Juden, and have no rights,” the leader notes, spitting on the ground at our feet. Something flung strikes me in the back of my head, then slides down my back. I ignore it.

Judah straightens and stiffens his spine. I had not noticed before how he had unconsciously hunched over once we entered these new streets. I can see him tremble. “Get out of my path immediately, or my servant here will move you for me.”

Despite himself, the leader looks up and meets my eyes. He takes an involuntary step backwards, even though I haven’t moved. “Gott in himmel!” Then he too stiffens his spine.

“Go back!” he shouts, sweat beading on his brow.

“Golem? Move them from my path.”

Remembering the cat, I try to be gentle, but the first one is too slow, prevented from moving fast enough by the boys at his back. When I try to push him gently, something in his arm breaks, and he shrieks and falls at my feet. The others turn and flee in all directions. The wounded one follows them, scrabbling along the pavement, then rising and clutching his broken arm.

Judah takes a shaky breath. “Golem, we must flee too. Back to our home at once.” Then he turns on his heel without waiting for any response and half walks, half runs back into the ghetto. I watch the fleeing boys for a moment, then turn and follow him. When we are home, he banishes me to the cellar. I lie down on my table and try to fall asleep, but it is hard. Despite feeling good that I was able to protect Judah, I feel a measure of guilt at not having been more careful.

***

The next day, when I awake, the cat is again upon my chest. But I have learned when to stop petting him, and he leaves without scratching me. Igor arrives at his usual time. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he stops and sniffs, then his face wrinkles in disgust. “What is that horrible smell?”

Belatedly, I remember what was thrown at me the previous day. “I’m sorry, Igor, it’s probably me. Some children flung something at me in the street, and Judah was so upset, I didn’t stop to clean it off. Then I was too upset to do so.”

Igor is clearly shaken. “He took you into the streets? What, was he meshuginah? Here, let me see your back.”

He turns me gently, then curses under his breath. “Something rotten and unbelievably foul. Let me get something to deal with it.” He leaves, and soon returns bearing a bucket and mop. He scrubs at my back, mutters something unintelligible but clearly disgusted, then turns to dispose of the mess. Before he can leave, I put a hand on his shoulder.

“Igor, friend: bring me a mirror?”

“A mirror? Have you suddenly become vain?”

“No. I just want to see what I look like so that I may know why everyone reacted to me with such horror.”

He returns some time later with a thin sheet of glass, unframed and scarred, with many gaps in the silver. But I can at least see myself. In the mirror, I see a flat, broad face with a broad nose and thin lips — not unattractive — framed by long hair cut into an angular inverted V-shape, falling well below my ears but stopping short of my shoulders. I look at myself, and see nothing overtly to fear.

“Igor, why did everyone fear me?”

“Because you are large and powerful. Did you perhaps note that you were twice the size of most of them?”

“I had not noticed, but now that you mention it....”

He purses his lips. “First, tell me more of these children.” I describe them as best I can, and when I’m done, he spits on the floor. “Hitlerjugend. Like some hell-spawned version of the Boy Scouts. Bullies, every last one of them, and like all bullies, they are driven more by fear than by courage.”

Something else has attracted my attention. “What are these letters on my forehead?”

“Aleph, mem, and tav: emet, which means truth.”

I belatedly realize the letters are backwards, and that quickly, can read and understand them. “Why are they there? You have no such letters, and was I not created in your image?”

He snorts. “Not in my image. If you were, you’d be hunched over and ugly enough to scare children.” He sees the look on my face, and holds up a hand to forestall me. “Peace. They are there because of the Jewish mysticism behind the magic that created you. I suspect it has something to do with tefilin. He pauses a moment in thought, then recites a quotation: “And it shall be for a sign for you upon your hand, and for a memorial between your eyes, that the law of the Lord may be in your mouth; for with a strong hand did the Lord bring you out of Egypt. That’s from Exodus, one of the texts I read you after you woke. But as I’ve told you, I’m no rabbi. Should you happen upon one, ask him.”

I hear familiar footsteps, and Judah descends the stairs to join us. “Golem, prepare yourself. We will soon have need of you.”

Igor frowns. “What’s wrong?”

Judah draws a deep, quavering breath. “He broke the arm of one of those vicious children yesterday. They have summoned the police. They are on their way as we speak.” He takes my arm. “You must come with me now.”

Igor begins a protest, then sees the look on Judah’s face and bites his lip.

I follow meekly, and he leads me outside and down the steps. “Stand here, and wait for my command.” I wait, alone, as he climbs back to the top of the steps and takes cover behind the door. When the police arrive, half a dozen uniformed men bearing weapons, they bark commands at me, but as they are not Judah or Igor, I feel no need to obey. Then all at once, the leader raises his pistol and shoots me. I feel the impact of the bullet in my chest, but there is no pain and it in no way impairs my functioning. The leader swears, turns to his men and issues a command. They all raise their weapons and begin firing. I stand, unperturbed, as my flesh absorbs the bullets. When they have emptied their weapons, they turn and look at each other and there is considerable debate over what they should do next.

Judah calls down to me. “Disperse them.”

“Master, I cannot. I might hurt them.”

“They have no such qualms over you. Go! Run at them. They will flee before you have any chance to do them harm.”

I sigh. It seems a sensible suggestion, so I raise my arms menacingly and begin moving towards them, slowly gathering speed. One of them notices my motion, shrieks, and flees. The others are so close on his heels that one trips another, and three of them fall in a heap, scrabbling frantically at the ground until they can regain their feet and continue running. When it is clear they are in full flight, I stop and return to my home.

Judah congratulates me. “Well done. Even better than I had hoped! Now come inside.”

I follow him once more to the basement, where Igor is waiting. “And?”

“And it worked as I hoped, skeptical one. The bullets did him no harm, and he put terror in their hearts. They shall not return.”

Igor shakes his head. “On the contrary. They will return with heavier weapons, and next time, it will not go so well.”

“Next time, I will order it to kill them.”

Igor draws in a sharp breath. “That would be most unwise. At best, they will send in tanks. At worst, they will bomb us into dust from the air.”

I clear my throat, where a bullet has lodged. “Also, I will not kill for you.”

Judah glares coldly at me. “Of course you will. You are a tool, nothing more. You have no free will.”

Igor nods approvingly. “Try him. You’ll see how wrong you are.”

Judah turns his glare on Igor, then back on me. “Golem: pick up Igor, carry him upstairs, and deposit him on the street.”

“Igor? Do you wish to leave that way?”

“Not just yet, Yossi. But thank you for asking.”

Judah has gone pale. “How can you defy me?”

Igor shakes his head. “Perhaps controlling one’s creation is harder than creating it in the first place.”

“But it must defend us against the Nazis! That is its purpose in life.”

“Perhaps if you asked nicely? Yossi, would you help Judah by defending us against those people who tried to shoot you today?”

“Yes, Igor, so long as I am not asked to kill them.”

Judah reaches for me, then slowly pulls his arm back. “And what if I were to change the word on your forehead by deleting the aleph, leaving only met: death? Then will you do as I command?”

Igor clears his throat. “It may also mean the death of Yossi. The kabbalah is unclear about this.”

As they debate, I ponder what Igor has read me. “Is not the sixth commandment Thou shalt not kill?”

Igor answers. “That depends on how one chooses to translate it. Some authorities believe that the correct translation is commit murder, which is not quite the same as kill. That interpretation would perhaps justify killing in self-defense. At the same time, we are taught that it is better to die than to shed innocent blood. But what, then, is innocent?”

Judah screams at the sky, or at least the cellar ceiling, in frustration. “You discuss sophistry when the Nazis plan to kill us for what this golem has done?”

Igor shakes his head. “Strictly speaking, for what you have done. You have tweaked the noses of these Germans instead of leaving well enough alone. They would have left us in peace without such a provocation.”

Judah is almost weeping with frustration. “That is so naïve I hardly know where to begin. We need its protection desperately. And if it works once, we can build an army of golems to defend us. Perhaps even to earn us the place we deserve in this society we have helped to build.”

“If we claimed that role by force, we would be no better than they are. And we must be better, to serve as an example before all the peoples of the world.”

Outside, there comes a crash that shakes the building. Dust falls from the beams, pattering on my upturned face. I hear shouting voices, and the sound of breaking glass.

“You see?” shouts Judah. “They are coming for us. Golem, you must defend us.”

I look to Igor. He shakes his head. “It is not mine to tell you what you must do. You must do what you believe is right, Yossi.”

I look back and forth between their faces, and now there is a new noise, as if the guns of the police were all combined into a single large gun, all its barrels firing simultaneously. The sound of breaking glass intensifies. And then I decide. “I shall defend us. But to my death, not theirs.”

Igor is nodding his head as I begin climbing the stairs, and I am encouraged. And yet, as I emerge into the street and see the armed men and tanks, I remember the ashen-faced child I harmed earlier in the day, and a fear seizes upon me. As the bullets pound into my flesh, not slowing me at all, I rush down the street and crush the barrel of the large gun in my hand. The heat of it bakes my flesh, creating a thin, crisp skin that is harder to move. As the barrel of the nearest small tank turns towards me, I rush forward and grab it by the lip of the muzzle, which I bend upwards, just as they fire at me. The barrel explodes both outwards and inwards, and a second later, the entire turret of the tank follows, strewing metal fragments everywhere. One of those scraps of metal strikes my forehead, and some of the clay falls into my hand. I turn it over, and see the letter aleph.

And then I hear voices shouting in German behind me, and as I turn toward them, the clay scrap falls from my hand.

Author’s notes

A shomer is the title of a man who volunteers to sit with the body of the recently deceased until it is time for burial (shemira); a woman would be a shomeret. Traditionally, they read psalms or other words of comfort for the dead, but reading from religious books is also common. An alterkacker is the Yiddish equivalent of an “old fart”. Hitlerjugend is the Hitler Youth. Hashem is the name religious Jews use for God when the name must be spoken outside of religious rituals. Tefilin are small leather cases that contain text from the Jewish torah; they are worn on forehead and forearm by observant Jews during the morning prayers. To the best of my knowledge, there were no formal Jewish ghettos in Berlin before World War II, so their existence in this story is alternate history. Nor were there any Berlin golems, clay or otherwise, according to conventional histories. The Jewish Museum Berlin has an excellent overview of the history of the golem legend. Curiously, there is no discussion of its relationship to the Frankenstein story, despite the obvious parallels; Mary Shelley must have known of the golem, and perhaps been inspired by it. The Paul Wegener image about halfway through the museum's Web page is how I envisage Yossi. The kabbalah is a book of Jewish mysticism.

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