A Man of Clay
Kostopol, Ukraine, 1820
The tavern rowdies were planning something. “I hear those boys in Zaslav gave it to ‘em good,” said one bluff fellow. “Fired some houses and put an axe through a few of those no good Yids.”
Reb Moishe the delivery man walked by with a barrel of fine vodka on his shoulder: brewed at his cousin's brewery in Zaslav. As he put the barrel down, he caught their words.
“Aye. We ought to do the same. I can’t pay my taxes this year,” said a man with a belly like a stuffed hog. “It’s those Jews' fault. ”
Their voices dropped lower, but Moishe didn’t need to hear their words. He could guess pretty well what they were saying. He'd heard it before.
“I won’t let it happen,” he muttered. “No! I won’t!”
“Eh?” Stepan the innkeeper heard him. “What’s that you say, Moishe?”
“I won’t let it happen,” Moishe cried. “Not one more pogrom. Not one!”
Pyotr, the town Constable, was sitting at the next table. “Oh yeah? How are you gonna stop 'em, old man?”
“I'll tell you how,” said Moishe. “I have made a defender out of clay. One who is very strong...strong as stone, and feels no pain.”
“What's that? Say again?”
Moishe put his hands on his hips. “My father taught me the secrets of Kabbalah. He knew the magical codes.” His glance slid over to the knot of bullies at the next table. He spoke a bit louder for their benefit. “Taught me to put a curse on a man, cover him with boils, stop the breath in his body. That's right...”
He saw one of the bullies glance at him sidewise. He felt a yearning for a sip of his cousin's fine vodka. Only a sip, of course, just to sample...but no...not here.
Nevertheless, his head spun as if he had already drunk the sample. “Wouldn’t no one dare come after my father and try to make pogrom,” he cried. “No, by the Holy Name. Know what he taught me to do? He could create a Golem out of clay—a Golem strong enough to pick up every hog’s son in this room and crack their skulls together. Like walnuts!”
Words, they were a powerful intoxicant. One could get as drunk on words as on any liquid spirits. “Aye,” he cried, “a Golem that no sword could pierce and no fire could burn. Why, he’d pick up a Cossack’s horse and toss it in the air like a feather!”
Constable Pyotr pulled on Moishe's sleeve. “Listen here...you'd better watch your tongue.”
“No sir, I’m not going to hush. I’m just getting started,” Moishe cried. At the next table, the rowdies had quieted down. “Why, my father taught me to make a Golem that could outrun a regiment of the Czar's finest. He’d chase them right back to the Winter Palace, he would. And he’d smash the walls like paper! See if he can’t!”
At the next table, Ivan hogsbelly had forgotten his drink. “Shh. You hear what the Yid is saying?” he whispered to his friend Yuri Garlicbreath.
“That’s right,” Moishe cried. “You ever hear of Samson in the Bible? Golem’s as strong as that. Could pull down the Church of St. Basil, I’ll wager. For sure he’d send them Cossacks running for their mamas,” he finished, sliding his glance toward the assembly of toughs, now quiet as death.
“By the saints!” Yuri whispered to Boris the Belcher.
The town rowdies shrank back a bit. “Uh....I better be getting' home,” said Ivan to Boris. “Marushka'll kill me if I'm late for dinner.”
***
They slowly melted away and disappeared, like snow in spring. But Constable Pyotr wasn't quite so soft. He called a messenger boy and gave him a message for the town magistrates.
The next day, they came for Reb Moishe. They clapped manacles on him and dragged him to police headquarters, where a Tribunal of seven waited.
“Is it true you have sorcerous powers to take clay and make a living being?”
“It is true,” said Reb Moishe.
They fell on him, bound his arms and hoisted him above the big wood stove. “Tell us the truth. What plans do you have to bewitch us all?”
Moishe found himself reluctant to speak. His little story had discouraged the bullies and effectively protected the shtetl. Why ruin a good thing?
“Golem is twice as tall as a man, and could smash Pyotr here like a stick. Now please let me down, gentlemen.” He tried not to beg. A strong magic man should be able to laugh at a little torture.
“You'll show us this Golem and destroy it.” They let him down with a thud. “Or we'll...we'll call in the Czar's whole army on you Yids.”
The Czar's army! Reb Moishe had no answer for that. “Yes sir,” he said.
He climbed into the wagon with a heavy heart, while the Constable and the Tribunal crowded in around him. He wondered if there was anything in the Talmud or the Zohar about a situation like this. What would the great Reb Alkabetz do?
The wagon took them past the brewery and the old mill, and finally arrived at Reb Moishe's tumbledown shack on the hill. Sighing, he led them past the house to the cave among the rocks. “Here we are, gentlemen." He went inside. "Come out, liebschein, there's some fine gentlemen who want to meet you." He covered Golem with a shawl and they stepped out.
Then in front of the Tribunal he pulled off the shawl, and what should be standing in front of the Constable and his men, but an exquisite child, with curly ringlets and lively eyes, dressed in a lacy petticoat. If not for the smudges of earth on her cheeks, one would have thought she was entirely natural.
“What madness is this,” cried Pyotr. “You've deceived us!”
Golem shrank back from the anger in the men's faces, and clung to Reb Moishe's hand.
“Alas, gentlemen, forgive me” said Reb Moishe. “My story of the monster was nothing but a lie. My creation is no giant defender of Israel. Merely a memento for a lonely old man. You see...the Cossack pogrom-makers have already been here. They killed my wife and my little girl Raisel...” he wiped his eyes. “As I buried them in the field of clay, in my grief I picked up the clay in my hands and shaped it until...well, my Raisel lived again, after a fashion.”
The bristly-mustached Constable bent to touch the girl. “Amazing...so lifelike. I...I had a little girl too, once. Alas, she died of the pox.” He turned to Reb Moishe. “I wonder if...you could create a clay daughter for me too?”
Reb Moishe shrugged. “One never knows. I would have to go to the hills and gather the magical items. I would need my freedom...” he raised his manacled hands.
“It shall be done!” The Constable clapped his hands, and his assistants released Moishe, who stood with a sigh of relief.
"Of course, I would also want a written guarantee of protection: no more pogroms in this town."
Pyotr glanced at the rest of the Tribunal. "Oh, very well." He put a hand on his gold crucifix. "We'll swear it by our Savior."
“Fine, then I shall go immediately to work on your request.” Reb Moishe watched the wagon leave. Sighing with relief, he trudged into the woods with the Golem Raisel at his heels.
“Excellent job, my liebe,” he whispered, smiling. “You got them eating out of your hands. Why, you nearly convinced even me that you were a creation of clay. Now come...we'd better get out as fast as we can.
“Oh, papa, I'm so proud of you,” said the girl. “You're such a great magician.”
“Oh hush,” said Moishe. “I'm a fraud...nothing but a trickster. Me, create a Golem? I wouldn't know how to do that in a hundred years. Heh.” Moishe began to laugh. “All I did, my dear Raisel, was call you back to life, by calling your spirit back from the afterworld. Speaking of spirits,” he added, “I'm rather thirsty.” He took out a tiny flask of his cousin's vodka and tilted it up to his lips.
Kostopol, Ukraine, 1820
The tavern rowdies were planning something. “I hear those boys in Zaslav gave it to ‘em good,” said one bluff fellow. “Fired some houses and put an axe through a few of those no good Yids.”
Reb Moishe the delivery man walked by with a barrel of fine vodka on his shoulder: brewed at his cousin's brewery in Zaslav. As he put the barrel down, he caught their words.
“Aye. We ought to do the same. I can’t pay my taxes this year,” said a man with a belly like a stuffed hog. “It’s those Jews' fault. ”
Their voices dropped lower, but Moishe didn’t need to hear their words. He could guess pretty well what they were saying. He'd heard it before.
“I won’t let it happen,” he muttered. “No! I won’t!”
“Eh?” Stepan the innkeeper heard him. “What’s that you say, Moishe?”
“I won’t let it happen,” Moishe cried. “Not one more pogrom. Not one!”
Pyotr, the town Constable, was sitting at the next table. “Oh yeah? How are you gonna stop 'em, old man?”
“I'll tell you how,” said Moishe. “I have made a defender out of clay. One who is very strong...strong as stone, and feels no pain.”
“What's that? Say again?”
Moishe put his hands on his hips. “My father taught me the secrets of Kabbalah. He knew the magical codes.” His glance slid over to the knot of bullies at the next table. He spoke a bit louder for their benefit. “Taught me to put a curse on a man, cover him with boils, stop the breath in his body. That's right...”
He saw one of the bullies glance at him sidewise. He felt a yearning for a sip of his cousin's fine vodka. Only a sip, of course, just to sample...but no...not here.
Nevertheless, his head spun as if he had already drunk the sample. “Wouldn’t no one dare come after my father and try to make pogrom,” he cried. “No, by the Holy Name. Know what he taught me to do? He could create a Golem out of clay—a Golem strong enough to pick up every hog’s son in this room and crack their skulls together. Like walnuts!”
Words, they were a powerful intoxicant. One could get as drunk on words as on any liquid spirits. “Aye,” he cried, “a Golem that no sword could pierce and no fire could burn. Why, he’d pick up a Cossack’s horse and toss it in the air like a feather!”
Constable Pyotr pulled on Moishe's sleeve. “Listen here...you'd better watch your tongue.”
“No sir, I’m not going to hush. I’m just getting started,” Moishe cried. At the next table, the rowdies had quieted down. “Why, my father taught me to make a Golem that could outrun a regiment of the Czar's finest. He’d chase them right back to the Winter Palace, he would. And he’d smash the walls like paper! See if he can’t!”
At the next table, Ivan hogsbelly had forgotten his drink. “Shh. You hear what the Yid is saying?” he whispered to his friend Yuri Garlicbreath.
“That’s right,” Moishe cried. “You ever hear of Samson in the Bible? Golem’s as strong as that. Could pull down the Church of St. Basil, I’ll wager. For sure he’d send them Cossacks running for their mamas,” he finished, sliding his glance toward the assembly of toughs, now quiet as death.
“By the saints!” Yuri whispered to Boris the Belcher.
The town rowdies shrank back a bit. “Uh....I better be getting' home,” said Ivan to Boris. “Marushka'll kill me if I'm late for dinner.”
***
They slowly melted away and disappeared, like snow in spring. But Constable Pyotr wasn't quite so soft. He called a messenger boy and gave him a message for the town magistrates.
The next day, they came for Reb Moishe. They clapped manacles on him and dragged him to police headquarters, where a Tribunal of seven waited.
“Is it true you have sorcerous powers to take clay and make a living being?”
“It is true,” said Reb Moishe.
They fell on him, bound his arms and hoisted him above the big wood stove. “Tell us the truth. What plans do you have to bewitch us all?”
Moishe found himself reluctant to speak. His little story had discouraged the bullies and effectively protected the shtetl. Why ruin a good thing?
“Golem is twice as tall as a man, and could smash Pyotr here like a stick. Now please let me down, gentlemen.” He tried not to beg. A strong magic man should be able to laugh at a little torture.
“You'll show us this Golem and destroy it.” They let him down with a thud. “Or we'll...we'll call in the Czar's whole army on you Yids.”
The Czar's army! Reb Moishe had no answer for that. “Yes sir,” he said.
He climbed into the wagon with a heavy heart, while the Constable and the Tribunal crowded in around him. He wondered if there was anything in the Talmud or the Zohar about a situation like this. What would the great Reb Alkabetz do?
The wagon took them past the brewery and the old mill, and finally arrived at Reb Moishe's tumbledown shack on the hill. Sighing, he led them past the house to the cave among the rocks. “Here we are, gentlemen." He went inside. "Come out, liebschein, there's some fine gentlemen who want to meet you." He covered Golem with a shawl and they stepped out.
Then in front of the Tribunal he pulled off the shawl, and what should be standing in front of the Constable and his men, but an exquisite child, with curly ringlets and lively eyes, dressed in a lacy petticoat. If not for the smudges of earth on her cheeks, one would have thought she was entirely natural.
“What madness is this,” cried Pyotr. “You've deceived us!”
Golem shrank back from the anger in the men's faces, and clung to Reb Moishe's hand.
“Alas, gentlemen, forgive me” said Reb Moishe. “My story of the monster was nothing but a lie. My creation is no giant defender of Israel. Merely a memento for a lonely old man. You see...the Cossack pogrom-makers have already been here. They killed my wife and my little girl Raisel...” he wiped his eyes. “As I buried them in the field of clay, in my grief I picked up the clay in my hands and shaped it until...well, my Raisel lived again, after a fashion.”
The bristly-mustached Constable bent to touch the girl. “Amazing...so lifelike. I...I had a little girl too, once. Alas, she died of the pox.” He turned to Reb Moishe. “I wonder if...you could create a clay daughter for me too?”
Reb Moishe shrugged. “One never knows. I would have to go to the hills and gather the magical items. I would need my freedom...” he raised his manacled hands.
“It shall be done!” The Constable clapped his hands, and his assistants released Moishe, who stood with a sigh of relief.
"Of course, I would also want a written guarantee of protection: no more pogroms in this town."
Pyotr glanced at the rest of the Tribunal. "Oh, very well." He put a hand on his gold crucifix. "We'll swear it by our Savior."
“Fine, then I shall go immediately to work on your request.” Reb Moishe watched the wagon leave. Sighing with relief, he trudged into the woods with the Golem Raisel at his heels.
“Excellent job, my liebe,” he whispered, smiling. “You got them eating out of your hands. Why, you nearly convinced even me that you were a creation of clay. Now come...we'd better get out as fast as we can.
“Oh, papa, I'm so proud of you,” said the girl. “You're such a great magician.”
“Oh hush,” said Moishe. “I'm a fraud...nothing but a trickster. Me, create a Golem? I wouldn't know how to do that in a hundred years. Heh.” Moishe began to laugh. “All I did, my dear Raisel, was call you back to life, by calling your spirit back from the afterworld. Speaking of spirits,” he added, “I'm rather thirsty.” He took out a tiny flask of his cousin's vodka and tilted it up to his lips.