Curt Leviant - Kafka's Son

But Yossi just laughed again and the shamesh joined in. No chorus echoed their laughter — still, it rang in the benches, the walls; even the old banner fluttered near the vaulted ceiling.

When Yossi left, the shamesh and I gazed at each other. Sooner or later, he would ask me about the film, his role in it, to see what he looked like.

“The film, shamesh, is in its very early stages, so I have nothing to show you. It will take a while. But I guarantee you, I won’t forget you. You will get a copy of the film.”

I was still musing whether I should tell him what Mr. Klein had said about the attic. But that is the very reason I had come to the shul this morning.

“Shamesh,” I began. “I spoke to an old man the other day and he also said there was an attic here.”

“Yeh? Who is this man what spoke to you?”

“A Mr. Klein. He said he knew there’s an attic.” I didn’t want to tell him Mr. Klein was there lest I get inundated with another barrage of hilarity.

“And maybe that man, maybe he also seen the goylem?” the shamesh said, ticking his head like a fishwife arguing with a petulant customer.

“That he didn’t say.”

“I don’t know a Mr. Klein.” And he clapped his hands twice to signal: end of story.

“But he knows you,” I persisted.

“More people know me than I know them. I am the shamesh.”

“So we have a contradiction, don’t we? You say no attic, but last time we spoke you recited from the memoir of Rabbi Katz, who described the Maharal undoing the golem in the attic of the Al-tnigh…. Was he lying?”

“What? Who? The holy Rabbi Yitzchok Katz, son-in-law of the saintly Maharal, a liar? God forbid!”

“But you also showed me there can be no attic here. You said, and I quote you, I quote you like you quote the holy Rabbi Katz, ‘There was no attic, there is no attic, there will be no attic.’ So how can it be and not be? It can’t be true and not true at the same time. It’s not logical. So we have a contradiction, don’t we?”

“You know physica, yungerman?”

“Physics? Yes, a bit.”

“Did you know that scientists discovered that one of Newton’s basic laws has been ab-ro-ga-ted? The law what says one thing cannot be at two places at the same time?”

“Yes.”

“But they discovered recently that one atom can be in two places at the same time. Quantum physica.”

“So?”

“So you just answered the question. Solved the riddle. So!” he concluded, imitating me.

I don’t buy it, I thought. I don’t accept it. Something is fishy here. Then it dawned on me: perhaps the shamesh had created a myth of his own in telling people there is no attic. He was old, tired. Didn’t want to be pestered anymore. Golem, attic. Attic, golem. Enough. There is no attic. And you’re the golem. Period.

“But Mr. Klein told me he heard of someone who was up there. During the war.”

“Okay. So God made a miracle for him,” the shamesh said with a sarcastic singsong. He either didn’t believe me or he didn’t believe Klein. “And He created the alleged attic, which as any in-tell-i-gent person can plainly see, and as I’ve shown you, does not exist. And, moreover, the Maharal, who created the goylem, gave an order that has the force of a Torah law and has been strictly obeyed for more than four hundred years that no man ever dare set foot in the attic, the which we all know does not exist.” Then the shamesh added, “You will send me film when done, yes?”

“Of course. I told you I would.”

“I know.” He smiled. “I just wanted to hear it again.”

Then he hugged me goodbye and kissed me on both cheeks.

His parting words were, “If God wants to create an attic for his purposes, who am I, a simple shamesh, to say no?”

As I was coming out of a little vegetarian restaurant — rustic wooden tables, cozy atmosphere, no smoking, imaginatively prepared food— and made my way along a little lane that led to the great square, I heard a cry “American!” I turned and saw someone running toward me from the top of the lane. That cry spurred me to run first and think later. It had to be someone local, for an American would have called me by name. Who could be running after me? I thought, as I sprinted ahead.

Sensing someone loping among them, people made way for me. For those who didn’t, I nimbly stepped left and right, hopped, pivoted on one foot, and pressed ahead.

Who could be calling me “American”? As storefronts moved by and behind me, I felt I was a camera dollying forward in the middle of the street. Now the shops whizzed and blurred by until I was in the crowded open square, where it was easier to elude a pursuer.

It could be the director, after me for damages I had caused his set; it could be that huffy actor. He had said he would meet up with me and he was right. I turned. My pursuer, whose face I couldn’t see, was running too. I didn’t want to meet him again. I owed him nothing. I had apologized. And the shamesh wasn’t here to help with some kind of magical powers to give me an edge in a confrontation, which I didn’t want in the first place.

Or maybe it was someone Katerina Maria has sent — Katerina Maria, angry that I hadn’t made contact with her again and had abandoned the relationboat we had launched together. Or maybe it was her papa after me for other, more complicated, reasons: leaving his daughter, making false promises, placing his thirty-seven-year-old virgin in harm’s way, embarrassing the entire extended family now that she, unattached, unspoken for, unmarried, was in the family way.

All these thoughts — again came the urgent call, “American!”— flitted in my head as I danced, leaped, jigged, and ran. Hadn’t I done this before, when I was in pursuit some time ago after the girl in the blue beret?

It was good the crowds were thick and I was able to blend into the crush of people, moving quickly, unobtrusively, now at the edge. On I ran. Ran on and on. I ran and ran. It seemed I was running all over, through, and around Prague, crossing bridges, streets, up the hill and down the hill, passing the Altneu on Parizska Street, running along the Moldau, traversing the great plaza again, dodging crowds, my adamant, unknown pursuer well behind me, always letting me know that he was still near, with his recurrent shout, “American!” showing that he had not given up, was relentless in his chase, but was well enough behind me to keep out of sight and shroud his identity.

Could that actor in Katya’s little film still remember that alleged slight so well that, despite my apology, which he refused to acknowledge outside the Altneu, he still harbored such a fierce determination to strike back at me? Or was I dead wrong? Could it be someone else who wanted to harm me? But if he had so much energy to run so far, why had he not caught up to me? Or was he doing it on purpose to keep me off balance? To frighten me? Weaken me so that his confederate, lurking nearby, could surprise me from the side?

Now I was running on the square again. The K Museum was coming up, and I hunched and moved to the side, like 007 in a James Bond movie, crumpled myself into a ball, and rolled into the museum doorway, pushed the door open with my feet, turned and crawled in.

The surprised receptionist saw me. It was not the one I had filmed. Her I had never seen before.

“What’s the matter?” she said in Czech.

“Do you speak English? Someone is after me. Don’t be afraid. I know Dr. Hruska. Is he here?”

“In vacation. Business trip. To Brussels and Amsterdam. Come quick. Behind desk. Go in door. Closet.”

In the door, heart pumping. I touched the wall for a light switch. None. Swooshed my hand in a circle in the air for a pull string. Found one and pulled. The light went on.