Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

I wondered why Jiri didn’t send me to her directly. Perhaps that was the cause of Jiri and Betty’s argument, Jiri stressing one point, Betty another. Perhaps they wanted the golem to check me out. Still, I thought, why did I need a middleman?

“Because,” the golem answered, “Jiri wanted me to meet you. He wanted my opinion. He values my opinion.”

Opinion for what? I didn’t say. I didn’t even think it lest the golem read my thoughts again.

“I think you’ll like Eva. She’s a very interesting woman, a heroine of the Resistance, a pianist, she studied with Dvořák’s son-in-law, Josef Suk—”

“I just saw some youngsters carrying a placard for a concert with the violinist Josef Suk. Is he still alive?”

Yossi golem laughed. “No. That Josef Suk died in 1935. You’re seeing the name of his grandson, who has the same name, and he’s no youngster either… But people do live to ripe old ages, you know. Like entertainers in the US who have gone beyond one hundred. Irving Berlin, for instance?”

“Yes, I know. Chagall at 98. George Burns, 101. Moses at 120.”

“Very nice,” Yossi said quickly. “But no more obituaries today, please. So. To continue. Eva has plenty of stories about the old Jewish community and sites of Jewish interest here that few people know about. And if she likes you, she will introduce you to other interesting people.”

I did some calculating. “Wait a minute. If Eva studied with the first Joseph Suk so many decades ago, she must be up there in years. How old is she?”

“I don’t know. She’s older than me and I’m sixty-eight.”

“No. I don’t believe it. You’re sixty-eight? Impossible. You don’t look a day over fifty-four. Okay, maybe fifty-five.”

The golem laughed.

“Well, I’m in good shape, even without my right eye. I’m made of good elements… And when you see Eva, send her my best regards.”

Yossi wrote Eva’s full name — Eva Langbrot — her address and phone number on a slip of paper, even suggested the Metro line and station closest to her house. Then he said:

“It’s all very nice. We have had a lovely conversation, a good time together, but one thing is missing.”

“What?”

“Your Hebrew name, tovarish.” Yossi golem smiled. “I still don’t know your Hebrew name. Suppose one day we want to give you an aliya here.”

“It’s Amschl. The shamesh just asked me too. Amschl ben Moshe is how I’m called to the Torah.”

“Ah,” he said. “Aha… A…” and he lifted both his palms up and lowered them several times as if carrying an invisible weight. “A significant name in Prague. A worthy, a serious, memorable name. Amschl… Did Jiri know your Hebrew name?”

“No, but just before I concluded my visit in the hospital he said, right out of the blue, ‘Amschl.’”

“That may have been the special word. Sometimes we hear a special word but we don’t know it.”

“I didn’t know it was a special word.”

“See? That’s exactly what I mean. A name as a special word. And, speaking of names, my name is Yossi, Yosef, Josef Lemberg.”

I didn’t want to tell Yossi — of course, he probably knew it: how could a citizen of Prague not know? — that the name traditionally given to the golem was Josef. Was it just coincidence that Yossi, who looked like a golem, had the golem’s name? Or can we say, like Kant and Kierkegaard, that there is no such thing as coincidence: everything is planned, preordained, destined. How does Spinoza put it? A domino fell, eons ago, and pushed other dominoes, which are still falling.

“Now go to Eva. She’ll introduce you to the old man who will sh—”

But he didn’t finish the word, for just then another man came up and started a rapid-fire round of Czech, which Yossi matched energetically. I watched Yossi’s face. He gave no sign that he was arguing with the man, but there was a give-and-take between them. When they stopped, the other man bowed to me, acknowledging he had interrupted me, and departed. But he did not apologize for intruding into our conversation.

“What were you saying a moment ago? The old man who will— will what? You started a word with ‘sh’ and then that man burst in.”

Yossi looked up, tilted his head, thinking. “I forgot…that chap knocked the thought right out of my head.”

Yossi looked away from me. I saw his face in golem profile, the dead side of his face.

“‘The old man who will…’ Those are the exact same words Jiri used. ‘Go see Yossi. He will introduce you to some interesting people, an old man who will.’”

“Will what?” Yossi asked.

“How should I know? That’s what I’m asking you,” I said with increasing frustration. “Jiri said this at the hospital when he wasn’t well. He would say something, drift off, and fall asleep, and not finish what he was saying. After I left him at the hospital that day I never saw him again. But how strange it is that you used the very same phrase he did.”

Yossi turned away from me and again I saw only the frozen side of his face.

“Sometimes the dead speak through me,” he said with a hollow voice.

“And like him, you didn’t finish your thought.”

Yossi golem shrugged. The incomplete thought, which annoyed and intrigued me, didn’t bother him at all. But I pressed on.

“Try to recall what you wanted to tell me about the old man. ‘He will sh—’ Will surely? Will show? Will share?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. But good luck with your visit to Eva and come back to see me again.”

As I shook hands with him, I wondered what kind of aborted message both Jiri and Yossi were trying to send me. I turned to go. But I had hardly taken three steps when the golem added another conundrum. I didn’t see him as he spoke. The words were aimed at my back, then split and flew by each of my ears.

“By the way, you probably don’t know this, but Jiri’s middle name was Amschl too.”

As soon as I said goodbye to Yossi golem at the Altneushul — and disregarding Dr. Hruska’s advice not to waste my time — I went to look for the man who claimed to be K’s son.

What better way to put a star into my Prague film than to video Karoly Graf? Even if false, his story would still make for fascinating cinema. Let the viewer judge the accuracy of his claim. I even toyed with the catchy title, K’s Son .

In the taxi to his house, I was already filming. That’s where films begin, in the mind’s eye, which is both camera and screen. The rest is easy. It’s like writing. Not on paper is it done, nor with pen, but on the mind’s slate. Only then, a few seconds later, do the fingers guide pen over paper, and often the pen can’t keep up with the torrent of messages the mind is sending the fingers. Same with films, or a Mozart composition. It’s already fully formed in the head.

I would begin with an overview of Prague, its silhouette, much like the opening of the silent film The Golem . Then, after a brief interlude in the K Museum, I’d feature my first star, K’s son. I would be careful to note that this is Graf’s assertion. But I would also state that to my knowledge no one else has come forward with a like claim. In my segment on the golem, its place in the film not yet determined, the shamesh would be featured. And as a way of getting to know her, I also wanted to include the girl in the blue beret. I could promise to film her but with no guarantee that her scene would be in the final version. If I wanted to blend documentary with fiction, as some filmmakers do, I could pass her off as a grand-niece of K’s and coach her with a few lines. It is no secret in the newpaper world that photos, especially remote war scenes, are occasionally staged, like that famous World War II photo of the Soviet flag flying from a building when the Germans were defeated. But I wouldn’t, couldn’t, do that. My reputation was based on total honesty. Not only has my integrity never been questioned, it’s been singled out for praise.