The Golem and the Djinni

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 could see no way around it. “Yes, I think I am,” he said, looking away to hide from the pain in his uncle’s eyes. For a long, miserable time after, Michael felt he might as well have struck the man across the face.

They’d been slow to reconcile. Even now, years later, they only saw each other once a month or so. They kept to cordial small talk and avoided opinions on painful subjects. The Rabbi congratulated Michael on each success and spoke consoling words at his defeats—which were many, for Michael’s job was far from easy. When the previous supervisor, who’d insisted on only taking money from Jewish Socialist groups, had quit, the Sheltering House was weeks away from shuttering for lack of funds. Michael was invited to accept the position and saw for himself the many dozens of men in their dormitories. The weave of their clothes, the cut of their beards, and their vaguely bewildered air all marked them as fresh from the boat. These were the most vulnerable of the immigrants, most likely to be duped or swindled. He reviewed the House’s ledgers, which were in chaos. He accepted the position, then swallowed his pride and went to the local congregations and Jewish councils, begging for lifeblood. In exchange, advertisements for Sabbath services were posted on the notice board in the hallway, next to the announcements of party meetings.

He still believed what he’d told his uncle. He attended no synagogue, said no prayers, and hoped that one day all men would lose their need for religion. But he knew that sweeping change only happened slowly, and he understood the value of pragmatism.

The Rabbi saw the religious advertisements when he visited, but said nothing. He too seemed to regret the rift between them. They were practically each other’s only relations—Michael’s father having long since decamped for Chicago, leaving behind a dozen frustrated creditors—and in a neighborhood of sprawling families, Michael felt it keenly. So when the Rabbi came knocking on his office door that afternoon, Michael was truly glad to see him.

“Uncle! What brings you here?” The men embraced, a bit formally. Michael had grown used to his own uncovered head, the lack of fringe beneath his vest; but he still felt naked in the man’s presence. Then he caught sight of the woman in the door’s shadow.

“I’d like you to meet a new friend,” said the Rabbi. “Michael, this is Chava. She’s newly arrived in New York.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” the woman said. She was tall, taller than him by an inch or two. For a moment she seemed a dark and looming statue; but then she moved forward into the room, and was merely a woman in a plain shirtwaist, holding a cardboard box.

Michael realized he was staring; he caught himself. “Likewise, of course! How long have you been here?”

“Only a month.” She gave a small embarrassed smile, as if apologizing for her recent arrival.

“Chava’s husband died on the voyage,” his uncle said. “She has no family in America. I’ve become her social worker, after a fashion.”

Michael’s face fell. “My God, how terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” It was a whisper.

There was a moment of silence, awkward with the weight of her revealed widowhood. Then the woman seemed to notice the box in her hands. “I made these,” she said, a bit abruptly. “They were meant for your uncle, but I made too many. He suggested I bring them to you, and you could give them to the men who live here.” She held out the box to Michael.

He opened it, unleashing a heavenly scent of butter and spices. The box was full of pastries, all different kinds: butter-horns, almond macaroons, spice cookies, sweet buns, gingersnaps. “You made all of these?” he said, incredulous. “Are you a baker?”

The woman hesitated, but then smiled. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Well, the men will certainly appreciate these. We’ll make sure everyone gets a piece.” He closed the box, fighting temptation. The almond macaroons in particular were making his mouth water; they’d been his favorite since childhood. “Thank you, Chava. This will be a great treat for them. I’ll take them straight to the kitchen.”

“You should try a macaroon,” she said.

He smiled. “I will. They’re my favorite, actually.”

“I—” She seemed to catch hold of herself, then said, “I’m glad.”

“Chava,” the Rabbi said, “perhaps you might wait for me in the parlor.”

The woman nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said to Michael.

“And you as well,” he replied. “And thank you, truly. On behalf of all the men.”

She smiled, and withdrew into the hallway. For such a tall woman, she moved quite silently.

“My God, what a tragedy for her!” Michael said when she was out of earshot. “I’m surprised she stayed in New York, instead of going back home.”

“There was little there for her,” said his uncle. “In a way, she had no choice.”

Michael frowned. “She isn’t living with you, is she?”

“No, no,” his uncle said quickly. “She’s staying with a former congregant, for now. An old widow. But I must find her a more permanent living situation, and a job as well.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult. She seems capable, if quiet.”

“Yes, she’s very capable. But at the same time she’s almost painfully innocent. It makes me afraid for her. She’ll need to learn how to protect herself, to live in this city.”

“At least she’ll have you to look out for her.”

His uncle smiled grimly. “Yes. For now.”

An idea had been forming in Michael’s mind; finally he gave it his attention. “You say you’re looking for a job for her?”

“Yes. Not a sweatshop, if I can help it.”

“Are you still in touch with Moe Radzin?”

“We’re cordial enough to say hello on the street, I suppose.” He frowned. “You think there might be a job for Chava at Radzin’s?”

“I was just there yesterday. The place was in chaos, and Moe was having fits. One of his assistants ran off to God knows where, and another is leaving to take care of her sister.” He smiled and pointed at the box. “If those taste as good as they look, then the bakery could use her. You should go talk to him.”

“Yes,” the Rabbi said slowly. “It’s a possibility. But Moe Radzin …”

“I know. He’s just as sour and unhappy as ever. But he’s fair, at least, and generous when he wants to be. The House gets all our bread from him, at discount. And his employees seem to respect him. Well, except for Thea.”

The Rabbi snorted. Thea Radzin was a formidable complainer, the sort of woman who began conversations with a list of her ailments. Among her husband’s female employees she worked as a matchmaker in reverse, listing their defects to any man who showed an interest.

Michael pressed on, feeling obscurely that if he could help his uncle, some of his guilt would be unburdened. “There are worse bosses than Moe Radzin. And perhaps he’ll feel some obligation to treat Chava well, if he knows you’re watching out for her.”

“Perhaps. I’ll speak to him. Thank you, Michael.” He squeezed his nephew’s shoulder; and Michael, with a burst of concern, saw that his uncle had never looked so worn and tired, not even when dealing with the stresses of a congregation. He had always worked himself far too hard. And now, instead of resting, he’d taken the welfare of a young widow upon himself. Michael wanted to suggest that there were any number of women’s groups that could look after her. But the Jewish women’s charities, he knew, were even more strapped than the men’s.

He said good-bye to his uncle and sat back at his desk. Even with his misgivings about his uncle’s health, the brief glimpse of the woman had intrigued him. She’d seemed quiet and shy, but the way she’d looked at him had been unnerving. She’d stared directly into his eyes, unblinking, a deep and candid gaze. He understood what his uncle meant about her needing to protect herself, but at the same time Michael felt it was he, not she, who had been laid bare.

The Sheltering House’s parlor was surprisingly spacious, running the length of the dim front hall. The Golem stood in the corner next to a dilapidated wing chair. It was now midmorning, and many of the men in the dormitories had left already, to look for work or a place to pray. But close to sixty remained, and the weight of their worrying minds pressed down on the Golem from above. It reminded her powerfully of her first night, on the Baltika, how the passengers’ fears and desires had been amplified by the strange surroundings. These were the same wild hopes, the same apprehensions. It hadn’t been as bad in Michael’s office; she’d been too focused on the challenge of speaking to a stranger, and not giving herself away.

She was beginning to fidget. How much longer would the Rabbi be? Against her will she glanced up at the ceiling. Up there was hunger, loneliness, fear of failure, and loud wishes for success, of home, of a gigantic platter of roast beef—and one man who stood in line for the W.C., wanting only a newspaper to read while he waited …

She glanced at the parlor table. An issue of Forverts lay there, waiting to be claimed.

“No,” she said to herself, louder than she had meant. She left the parlor and began to pace the long, dim corridor. Her hands gripped her elbows. She would knock on Michael’s door, tell the Rabbi they needed to leave, that she didn’t feel well—

To her relief, the office door opened, and the Rabbi and Michael stepped out, saying a few last words to each other. The Rabbi saw the Golem’s strained expression, and his good-bye grew more hurried. At last they were walking down the dark wooden hall to the rectangle of sunlight at its end.

“Are you all right?” asked the Rabbi when they were on the street.

“The men,” she began, and found she couldn’t go on: her thoughts were too quick, too choppy. She struggled to relax. “They all want so much,” she got out at last.

“Was it too much for you?”

“No. Nearly. If we’d stayed.”

The silent clamor of the Sheltering House faded behind her, was swallowed into the diffuse buzz of the city. Her mind began to slow. She shook out her fingers, feeling the tension ebb. “There was a man, upstairs,” she said. “He wanted a newspaper. I saw one in the parlor, and nearly brought it to him.”

“That would have been quite a surprise for him.” He tried to speak lightly. “You were able to hold back, though.”

“Yes. But it was difficult.”

“You are improving, I think. Though you nearly gave yourself away, with the macaroons.”

“I know.” She cringed at the memory, and the Rabbi smiled. “Chava,” he said, “it’s a cruel irony that you have the most difficulty precisely when those around you are on their best behavior. I suspect you would find it much easier if we all cast politeness aside, and took whatever we pleased.”

She considered. “It would be easier, at first. But then you might hurt each other to gain your wishes, and grow afraid of each other, and still go on wanting.”

Approval raised his eyebrows. “You’re becoming quite the student of human nature. Do you think you have improved enough to go out regularly on your own—say, to hold down a job?”

Apprehension clutched at her, mingled with excitement. “I don’t know. I’m not sure how I would know, except through trying.”

“Michael tells me that Radzin’s Bakery is looking for new workers. I know Moe Radzin from years ago, and I thought I might try to get you a position there. I should be able to secure an interview with him, at least.”

“A bakery?”

“It would be hard work, and long hours surrounded by strangers. You’d have to take constant care.”

She tried to imagine it: working all day with her hands, in an apron and a starched cap. Stacking the neat rows of loaves, their brown undersides still dusty with flour, and knowing that she had made them.

“I’d like to try,” she said.

7.

On a warm Saturday in September, the Djinni stood at the back of a crowded rental hall and watched as a man and woman were united in the Maronite Catholic sacrament of marriage. Despite the palpable joy of the other onlookers, he was not in the best of moods.

“Why should I go, when I don’t even know them?” he’d asked Arbeely that morning.

“You’re part of the community now. You’ll be expected at these things.”

“I thought you said I should maintain some distance, while I’m still learning.”

“Distance is one thing. Rudeness is another.”

“Why is it rudeness if I don’t know them? And I still don’t understand the purpose of a wedding. What could possibly induce two free beings to partner only with each other for the rest of their existence?”

Here, the conversation had deteriorated. Arbeely, flustered and aghast, tried to defend the institution, bringing forth every argument he could think of: paternity and legitimacy, marriage’s civilizing influence, the need for chastity in women and fidelity in men. The Djinni scoffed at each of these, insisting that the djinn had no such preoccupations, and he saw no need why men and women should either. To which Arbeely said that it was just the way it was, regardless of what the Djinni thought, and he must attend the wedding and try to keep his opinions to himself. And the Djinni replied that of all the creatures he’d ever encountered, be they made of flesh or fire, none was quite as exasperating as a human.

At the front of the hall, the bride and groom knelt as the priest swung a censer back and forth above them. The bride, eighteen years old, was named Leila but called Lulu, a name that suggested a sauciness not at all evident in the small and shyly smiling girl. Her bridegroom, Sam Hosseini, was a round and friendly man, well known in the community. He had been one of the first Syrian merchants to settle on Washington Street, and his imported-goods store was a neighborhood mainstay, attracting clients from far beyond its borders. Over the years he’d become quite prosperous, and was generous in helping his neighbors, so few begrudged him his success. As the priest intoned the service, Sam beamed with happiness and cast occasional glances down at Lulu, as if to confirm his great luck.

The ceremony ended, and everyone walked to the Faddouls’ coffeehouse for the wedding banquet. The café tables were covered with platters of kebabs and rice and spinach-and-meat pies, and ribbon-tied bags of sugared almonds. Women crowded one side of the coffeehouse, eating and chatting. On the other side, men poured araq into each other’s glasses and traded news. Sam and Lulu sat at their own small table in the middle, receiving congratulations, looking dazed and happy. A gift table near the door held a growing collection of boxes and envelopes.

But the Djinni was not among the crowd. He was in the alley behind the coffeehouse, sitting cross-legged on an abandoned wooden crate. The atmosphere in the wedding hall had been oppressive, humid with sweat and incense and perfume, and he was still irritated by what he saw as a pointless ceremony. He had no wish to be cooped up in the coffeehouse with dozens of strangers. Besides, the day had turned beautiful; the sky between the buildings was a pure blue, and a meandering breeze cleared the smell of refuse from the alley.

From his pocket he pulled a handful of gold necklaces, purchased from a shabby storefront on the Bowery. Arbeely had taken him there, saying it was the only place he knew of to purchase gold inexpensively; but he had seemed uncomfortable and frowned at the low prices, later remarking that he was certain they’d been stolen. They were of middling workmanship—the links were not entirely uniform, and the chains hung in an uneven sort of way—but the gold was of good quality. The Djinni gathered them into one palm and cupped his hands around them to melt them, and then began idly to shape the metal. When his hands stilled, he was holding a miniature golden pigeon. With a thin, pointed wire he added a few details—the suggestion of feathers, pinprick eyes—and then surrounded the bird with a filigree cage. It felt good to work with his hands, instead of the crude tools that Arbeely insisted he use when someone might be watching.

The alleyway door of the coffeehouse opened. It was Arbeely. “There you are,” the man said. A small plate and a fork were in his hands.

Irritated, the Djinni said, “Yes, here I am, enjoying a moment of solitude.”

A flash of hurt passed over the man’s face. “I brought you a piece of the kinafeh,” he said. “It’s about to run out. I was worried you wouldn’t get any.”

Guilt pricked vaguely at the Djinni. He knew Arbeely was doing much to help him, but it made him feel oppressed and beholden, and it was hard to keep from lashing out. He slipped the caged bird into his pocket and accepted the proffered plate, which held a square of something heavy-looking, with brown and cream-colored layers. He frowned. “What exactly is this?”

Arbeely grinned. “The closest thing to heaven on earth.”

The Djinni took a cautious bite. The act of eating was still difficult. Not the mechanism itself—chewing and swallowing were simple enough actions, and the food burned to nothingness inside him. But he’d never tasted anything before, and had been taken completely by surprise at his first experiences of flavor. The sensations of sweet and savory, salt and spice, were arresting, even overwhelming. He’d learned to take the food in small bites and chew slowly. Even so, the kinafeh was a shock. Sweetness burst across his tongue, and thin strands of dough crunched between his teeth, the sound echoing deep in his ears. A creamy tartness made his jaw tighten.

“Do you like it?” asked Arbeely.

“I don’t know. It’s … startling.” He took another tentative bite. “I think I like it.”

Arbeely looked around the alley. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”

“I needed a moment of quiet.”

“Ahmad,” Arbeely said—and the Djinni cringed at the name, his but not his—“I understand, really. God knows, I’m the same way at these things. But we don’t want people to think you’re a recluse. Please, come in and say hello. Smile once or twice. For me, if not yourself.”

Reluctantly, the Djinni followed Arbeely back to the party.

Inside, the tables had been pushed to the edges of the room, and a group of men was dancing in a fast-moving ring, their arms about each other’s shoulders. The women crowded around them, cheering and clapping. The Djinni stood out of their way, in the back of the room, and observed the bride through breaks in the crowd. Of all the people at the wedding, she was the one who’d caught his interest. She was young and pretty, and clearly very nervous. She barely touched the food in front of her but smiled and spoke with the well-wishers who approached their table. Next to her, Sam Hosseini ate like a starving man, and stood to greet everyone with hugs and handshakes. She listened to her new husband talk, and looked up at him with obvious fondness; but occasionally she would glance about, as if looking for reassurance. The Djinni remembered what Arbeely had told him, that she was only a few weeks in America, that Hosseini had proposed to her on a visit home. And now, the Djinni reflected, she was in a new place, on unsure footing, surrounded by strangers. Like himself, in a way. A shame, that according to Arbeely she now belonged to this man only.

The bride was still scanning the room. The dancing men spun to one side, and she saw the Djinni regarding her. He held her in his gaze for a long moment. Then she looked away; and when she greeted the next guest there was color high in her cheeks.

“Ahmad, would you like coffee?”

He turned, startled. It was Maryam. She carried a tray of tiny cups, each full of thick, cardamom-scented coffee. She wore her customary hostess’s smile, but her eyes carried an edge of warning. Clearly she’d seen his interest. “So you can drink to their happiness,” she said.

He lifted a cup from her tray. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she replied, and moved on.

He eyed the diminutive cup of coffee. Liquid in such a small amount would not hurt him, and it smelled interesting enough. He downed it all at once, as he’d seen the others do, and nearly choked. It was incredibly bitter; drinking it felt like an assault.