Джонатан Келлерман - The Golem of Paris

It’s too painful to look at the back of her son’s head, so she wipes her wet face, tells her heart to hold its tongue. The Russian manages to get the engine going and the Tatra plods along through Prague 8, toward Holešovice.

She supposes she’ll know their destination soon enough. Just as she did not question the men who came to her door, she does not question this new turn of fate. More often than not, the system takes away. Moments of generosity are not to be analyzed, but grabbed and hoarded like the boxes of Cuban oranges that appear in the shop windows without warning.

You buy as many as you can afford, as many as you can carry, because you cannot know when they might appear again, if ever. You take more oranges than two people can possibly eat; you barter them for items you do need, toilet paper or socks; if you are enterprising, you swap some of the oranges for sugar, which you then use to make a loose marmalade of the remaining oranges. You keep the jars hidden in the bureau like golden coins, ready to be deployed in lieu of cash when noodles come along.

But, Miss Lasková Inspector Hrubý said, turning a jar in his hand. I must object: you made it far too sweet, you eliminated the bitter edge, which is what makes a good marmalade. Tell me, who would want such sweet marmalade?

He set the jar down, pushed a pencil toward her . Write down their names.

Now the Tatra reaches the Čechův Bridge, iced over, its statuary in disrepair. Though dawn is hours away, she can make out the graceful silhouette of Old Town. She prefers it at night. Sunlight is cruel, revealing lost tiles like rotten teeth; creamy surfaces varnished black by the sooty, cancerous winds that blow in from the north.

Against violet clouds, the buildings’ regal contours assert themselves, and she feels a stab of kinship with these piles of wood and stone: beautiful, proud, soiled, secret.

“There is a group of Western artists visiting Prague,” the Russian says. “I believe you are acquainted with one of them.”

Her chest flutters. Yes, she is acquainted.

“In three hours, they depart for Vienna. They will convene outside the old synagogue before proceeding to the train station. You will approach your friend and explain that you have been discharged. You will express a desire to leave Czechoslovakia. You will display counterfeit travel documents and ask to go with her and her group, in order to provide cover. She will agree, because you have established a prior relationship with her. There is a recording of a conversation which took place between you, in which she is heard promising to work for your release. Am I correct, little bird? Do you remember she told you that?”

She will never forget it. She nods.

“Once in Vienna, you will go to the American embassy. You will describe the horrors of your confinement and offer to defect. To prove your sincerity, you will supply information about a novel design for a nuclear power plant to be constructed outside Tetov. You obtained this information from Doktor Jiři Patočka, a physicist with whom you have been romantic. I am sure you will have no difficulty describing your affair with him vividly. Allow me to introduce you.”

She studies the black-and-white snapshot of a man she has never met.

“You will receive further instructions when appropriate.”

She glances at her son.

“Yes, little bird, he comes, too. You understand we could not speak of this before. You have always been a loyal soldier. I admire that quality. But we had to give you a plausible motivation to betray us.”

She understands perfectly. She prays that her son can understand, too.

Do you see, Danek, the purpose of our suffering? Or will you hate me forever?

“So?” the Russian says. “Happy? Faith is restored?”

“Yes, sir.” Then she worries that she’s given the impression that her faith was ever compromised. She says, “Hopeful.”

The Russian laughs. “Even better. What is life, without hope?”

On Pařížská Street, he eases to the curb. Daniel throws open the door and dashes across the street toward the synagogue, gaping up at its serrated brow. The entire structure appears to be sinking into the earth, as though hell has opened its throat.

She gets out, hopping over a ridge of black slush.

Wide steps lead from the pavement down to a cramped, cobbled terrace. The Russian kicks aside wet garbage, clearing room to stand. Daniel explores pocks in the synagogue’s exterior plaster, rising on his tiptoes in an attempt to grasp the column of iron rungs set into the wall, the lowest of which is still far too high for him. Her heart blossoms at this evidence that he remains a child, unaware of his own limitations.

He points to a peaked door at the top of the rungs, ten meters up. “What’s that?”

“Really?” the Russian says. “Nobody has told you?”

Daniel shakes his head.

The Russian smiles at her mildly. “You can see for yourself why your nation is doomed. You lack pride.” He says to Daniel, “This is an important part of Czech culture, little one. You have heard of the golem, surely.”

The boy fidgets. “... yes.”

“Are you telling the truth, or are you trying to avoid looking stupid?”

“It’s not his fault,” she says. “They don’t teach useless fables in school anymore.”

“Ah, but must everything have a practical application?”

She hesitates. “Of course.”

The Russian laughs. “Well said, soudružka . Spoken like a true Marxist-Leninist.” He smiles at Daniel. “I will tell you, little one: through that door is the synagogue garret. You know what a synagogue is? A church for the Jews. Their priest, he is called the rabbi. There was once a very famous rabbi of this synagogue. They say he made a giant from clay. A monster, made of mud, three meters high. Taller than I, and you can see for yourself how tall I am. Fantastic, eh?”

Daniel smiles shyly.

“Alas, the creature could not be controlled. It had to be stopped.”

The Russian kneels, grasps Daniel by the shoulders with his huge hands, the fingertips and thumbs nearly touching. “But here’s the interesting part. The golem is not dead. It is asleep, right behind that door. And they say that on certain nights, when the moon is full, it wakes up.”

Daniel tilts his head back, searching the woolly cloud cover.

The Russian grins. “Yes. And if you are patient, and do what you must, you can draw it out. And if you say the right things, at the right moment, you can grab hold of it, and it becomes yours. It must do anything you command.”

He gives Daniel’s shoulders a squeeze and stands. “So? What do you make of that, little one? Do you believe it?”

Daniel’s tongue protrudes in concentration. “Jews are dirty.”

The Russian bellows laughter.

She says, “We don’t speak this way about anyone.”

“Your mother is right, little one. Dirty or not, you are going to be traveling among them, so you had better mind your mouth. Are you still hungry?”

The Russian looks at her. He wants his coat back.

She hands it over, and he fishes out a chocolate. Daniel begins to tear it open before manners kick in and he glances to her for permission.

“First say thank you.”

“Thank you,” Daniel says, and he crams the chocolate in his mouth.

The Russian says, “I hope you enjoy it very much.”

“Are we to wait in the cold for three hours?” she asks.

“I will fetch the dossier,” the Russian says. “Use the time to study it.”

He bounds up the steps and out of sight.

She rubs her arms to keep warm, resentful that he took the coat with him. How long has she been free? Not an hour, and already finding something to complain about! Perhaps the Russian is right about the Czechs. But if they have no pride, it’s because pride has been outlawed, per the dictates of men thousands of miles away.