Page 4 of The Golem of Mala Lubovnya
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The golem didn’t like being alone in the attic. He had very little to occupy his time. In the evening, before the light left the sky, he would take the moth-eaten fabric from the shelf—it had once been curtains, probably—and make a bed for himself on the hard floor. In the morning he would replace the cloth on the shelf. He had nothing else to clean, no other chores. He poked around, but the room was filled only with broken and useless things. He discovered a few small holes at the base of the walls, but the mice were too scared of him to come out.
One afternoon he tried forming the leftover clay into a figure, a miniature replica of himself. But he had no way to moisten the dust, and it simply fell apart. Even had he been able to sculpt something, he would have had no way to bring it to life. He didn’t understand how the letters engraved on his chest made him into something more than an inanimate statue, but still less than a man.
So that left him with two things to do. During the day, he stood at the window. The street below was quite busy, and he got little glimpses of people’s lives. He watched them stroll by, sometimes in a hurry and sometimes slowly, sometimes alone and sometimes with others. Often they carried burdens such as baskets or parcels. Children ran by, laughing. Dogs and cats chased one another or lounged in patches of sun, and birds twittered from rooftops or pecked at crumbs on the ground. Most fascinating of all, however, was the construction project across the street. He liked to watch the men shaping and lifting the rocks, but he especially liked to watch the youngest mason lay the bed of mortar and fill the gaps between the stones. The man was so confident in his work, so careful and precise.
But the golem’s favorite part of the day was at sundown, when he settled himself near the door to listen to the prayers—and especially to that one beautiful voice. The way the notes soared, the golem could almost believe they were intended to rise to the attic, to fill his ears with joy.
Once every seven days, the activity outside became especially frantic. Everyone bustled on those days, especially as the sun approached the horizon. Then great crowds entered the synagogue. Everyone was in their best clothes, and all their voices rumbled beneath him like stones rubbing together. The prayers on those nights were very loud, but even then the golem could make out that one voice among the others.
The next day there would be much less going on outside. The masons weren’t there at all, which made him sad. So he was happy when the prayers began again, leading the congregation into sunset and beyond.
The golem didn’t know how much time passed like this. The rabbi never came up to the attic, nor did anyone else. The golem wondered if he’d been abandoned along with the other unwanted detritus on the shelves. He was tempted to make noise—just a little—or to sneak down the stairs. But he mustn’t disobey his master. He knew that.
One long, hot afternoon, when the air in the attic felt as thick as wool and even the youngest stonemason was sluggish at his work, the golem noticed something interesting. It wasn’t a new thing, but he’d never before paid attention. While usually men walked with men and women with women, there were exceptions. Sometimes an elderly couple would hobble down the street elbow to elbow. Sometimes a young woman would smile at a young man. And on this stifling day, four women brought jugs of water to the masons and stood near them as they drank. The oldest woman was deep in conversation with the father, while three much younger women chatted with three of the sons. But the youngest son remained alone. When the old woman gave him a tin cup to drink from, he sat on the partially built wall with his back to the others and his face toward the shul. He looked sad, or perhaps just thoughtful. The golem understood that as a thing of clay, his perception of emotions was poor. But there was something about the set of the mason’s shoulders and the downward curl of his lips that reminded the golem of himself. The man was lonely, just like him, but the golem didn’t understand why this would be so. The mason had family; he had the whole world to move about in. He didn’t have to spend all day and all night in an attic without even somebody to tell him what to do.
It was both a mystery and a revelation: even surrounded by others, people could feel alone. The golem spent many hours pondering that puzzle, but he couldn’t figure it out.
The days were growing shorter,and a chill had returned to the evenings. The masons had nearly completed the house’s walls, which worried the golem. When they were finished, surely they would move on to another project somewhere else, somewhere outside his limited field of vision. That would leave him with only the prayers for solace, and they never lasted very long.
One afternoon the golem watched from his window as black clouds swept into the sky. All the people hurried to finish their tasks. In the buildings across the street, windows were shuttered tightly. All the masons left but one; the youngest, it seemed, wanted to finish setting a few more stones. He was covering them with heavy cloth when lightning began to crackle and thunder boom, and fat raindrops began to fall.
The golem had seen a few storms before, but none this fierce. He was frightened. Perhaps God had noticed the creature made of clay and decided he was an abomination. Perhaps God had sent the tempest to destroy him. The golem thought about himself, alone and unneeded in the attic, reduced to a pile of dust that would someday be swept away. If he were dust, he’d never again hear that voice lifted in prayer.
A bolt of lightning struck very close, and the thunder was loud enough to shake the building.
The golem wailed.
And as he looked out the rain-streaked window to the ground below, hoping for a final glimpse of the stonemason, he saw the man rooted in place. Staring openmouthed at him.
The golem rushed as far from the window as he could get. He backed into a corner—knocking over the broom—and sank to the floor. He huddled there with his face pressed against his knees. Now even more than the storm, he feared his master. If Rabbi Eleazar heard the noise the golem had made and discovered he’d allowed himself to be seen, surely the rabbi would be furious. Furious enough to destroy the golem.
The storm raged on, rain pounding the roof and wind making the window rattle, but the golem listened for the sound of footsteps running up the stairs.
Evening prayers began. The golem could hear the men chanting, but not that one wonderful voice. Perhaps this was a punishment for his transgression. He wasn’t certain he could bear his existence if he was never allowed to hear that voice again.
The prayers ended, the storm waned into a soft patter of raindrops, and still the rabbi didn’t come.
In the velvet blackness, it was difficult to find the old curtains and lay them neatly on the floor, but the golem managed. He took special care not to knock into anything and not to let his feet thud on the wooden floorboards. He settled down on his bed. But he couldn’t rid himself of the vision of the stonemason looking up at him; the man’s face lingered behind his eyelids like the aftereffects of a lightning flash. The man had looked astounded. But even then, and with his clothing soaked through, his curls dripping wet, he’d been handsome. In fact, the way his wet shirt had become almost transparent and clung to his broad chest only served to heighten the golem’s attraction.
Without the golem’s conscious intent, his right hand slid under the waistband of his trousers.
He had spent very little time thinking about his own body. Truly, he’d hardly thought of it as his own. He was a created thing. Property. His master could order him about at will, could destroy him as he saw fit. And while the golem had occasionally stroked the letters carved into his chest, he’d never explored the parts of himself that were covered by clothing.
Tonight, though, he allowed his hand to wander.
His belly was flat and uninteresting. But past that, he’d been made like a man. He didn’t know why the rabbi had bothered with such details, creating a cock and balls proportionate to the golem’s massive body. But now the cock leapt at his touch, lengthened, grew hard. He stroked it gently, using only his fingertips. His fingers were rough and raspy, like sand, but they felt good against the smoothness of his shaft. They felt very good. He rubbed harder.
A moan escaped his throat, unbidden, and he paused. He had already defied his master once tonight, making noise during the storm, and he dared not do so again. He should simply go to sleep. But he couldn’t, not when heachedso. Instead, he stood and felt his way to the shelf where the empty folded sacks were stored. He took the top one and returned to his bed, where he wadded the bag into a ball and stuffed the rough, dry fabric into his mouth. With the hope that his sounds would be muffled, he began to touch himself again.
Very soon his movements became harder and faster. Usually he was cold, but now a spark lit in his center as if he’d trapped a bit of the lightning. He stroked his cock and the spark grew, warming him, making him tingle from scalp to toes. And as the feelings inside him intensified, it seemed as if he could hear the faint ghost of a singing voice and see a wet, upturned face with wide brown eyes. He could almost—almost!—imagine another hand on his skin, and the fleshly scent of sweat.
A storm broke within the golem’s body. His torso bowed as his hips thrust upward; the back of his head thudded hard on the floorboards. For one brief moment, he felt real.
Afterward, he returned the sack to the shelf and settled on his side on the pallet. A light rain still tapped on the roof and window, but for the time being, the golem wasn’t afraid. He knew now why people prayed—to thank God for the gifts he’d given them. Their songs were gratitude for life and love and joy. The golem had tasted only the faintest nibble of those gifts, but he was grateful for even that much. He wished he knew how to pray. But maybe it was just as well that he didn’t, because then he’d be tempted to beg for a little more, for a few more bites of life.
The golem never dreamed. But that night as he fell asleep, his final thoughts were of a man standing in the rain.
