Miss Levy was a golem . . . and his master didn’t know.
The engine of Yossele’s mind was a slow and lumbering thing, but here was a problem that refused to be ignored. All of Yossele’s knowledge, all of his experience, came to him through Kreindel. She was his life, his purpose. He could not exist without her. Yet Miss Levy had come to the basement and sat with him—not Kreindel, but him—and he had learned what she was. Kreindel looked at the same woman, and saw . . . merely a woman.
Over and over the problem turned. He knew that Miss Levy was a golem, and that what Kreindel saw was incorrect. What did it mean—it meant that—
The realization spread through him. It meant that he was not simply an extension of Kreindel. He was other than Kreindel. A servant to her will, yet separate and distinct, with his own thoughts, his own knowledge.
He didn’t know what to do with this information. It made little sense, and yet it was the truth. But his attention had been divided for too long; he was growing restless, anxious. So he released his thoughts and returned to the task of watching Kreindel—while the day’s revelations crammed themselves into the corners of his mind, awaiting their chance to be examined further.
* * *
BUDGETING EXERCISE
Your household budget allows $10 a week for food expenditures. Using the included recipe-book and price list, you must devise a week’s worth of meals for yourself and your family: Husband, Son (12), and Daughter (9). In addition, you are hosting a Sunday luncheon for six women in your congregation’s Sisterhood Club, and must set a menu of at least three courses. The club has allotted you $15 for the luncheon. Any additional expense must come from your household budget—but you may not use the Sisterhood money for your own family.
A headache gathered at Kreindel’s temples. She picked up the recipe-book, hoping for guidance—but the recipes were unlike anything she’d ever eaten. She turned past fish quenelles and layered terrines, almond crescents and Franconia potatoes. And, yes, here were sauces: a vinaigrette for lettuce, and something called a Sauce Figaro, meant to be eaten over fish. She flipped through to the end, frowning. Where were the simpler recipes, for everyday meals? Why not substitute chopped liver for the terrine, and gefilte fish for the quenelles? And was the parsley garnish for the quenelles optional, or must she buy it? To Kreindel, parsley meant Passover: the herb dipped in salt-water, its sharp green taste. Why waste money on parsley if it wasn’t meant for a Seder plate?
She looked up from the desk. At the island, the rest of the class was hard at work, whipping meringues and mixing fillings, rolling out lumps of dough. Their teacher circled around them slowly—as Kreindel now suspected was her habit—observing their progress and making small suggestions. One of the girls tasked with the meringue was beating her egg-whites with a vengeful hand. Mrs. Levy murmured a few words into her ear, and the girl lightened her stroke at once. They exchanged a smile, and Mrs. Levy moved on.
Kreindel suppressed a shiver. Seen from a distance in this way, the woman’s effect on her students was almost sinister. That low murmur, as though gentling a skittish horse; the way each girl wore the same expression of admiring gratitude . . .
Miss Levy’s head turned toward Kreindel.
Kreindel reddened and looked down. She’d spent too long ruminating; she was losing time. She’d serve soft-boiled eggs to the children for breakfast, and at one egg per child per day that equaled a dozen eggs plus two . . .
Footsteps; and her teacher was at her side. “How are you managing, Kreindel? Is the assignment clear?”
Don’t argue, she told herself. Just say yes. But instead she asked, “Are the garnishes necessary, or may I leave them out?”
“It’s quite possible to complete the assignment without omitting the garnishes.”
“But . . . these dishes are so expensive. Why can’t I make herring and kugel for the Sisterhood luncheon, and donate the rest of the money to the congregation?”
Miss Levy smiled. “If this was truly your budget and your luncheon, then of course you could do so, if you wished. For the purpose of this exercise, though, you’ve decided differently.” She paused. “But I commend you for the question, Kreindel. You have the mind of a scholar.”
Startled by the compliment, Kreindel felt herself blush. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“I took the opportunity to speak with your Hebrew teachers, and they told me how proficient you are. Your father was a rabbi, I believe?”
She nodded.
“And he raised you on his own?”
“Our neighbors looked after me, when I was little. Then I looked after myself.” She couldn’t keep from adding: “And I taught myself to cook, too. Cabbage and potatoes, mostly. Chicken livers, if I could get them cheap enough.” She smiled a bit, remembering. “My father called them yeshiva meals, because it was the sort of food he ate when he was a student.”
“You took on quite a burden, for a young girl,” said Miss Levy.
Kreindel shrugged. “Not really. It wasn’t hard.”
“Perhaps not the work itself. But you made yourself responsible for your father’s welfare, at an age when most children must be goaded into their chores.”
She blushed again, embarrassed and gratified. “I just wanted to help him,” she murmured.
“You must have loved him very much.”
Unexpected tears gathered in Kreindel’s eyes. How long had she been waiting for someone, anyone, to say these things to her? She gazed up at the woman in her starched white jacket—and suddenly she was in a tenement hallway again, watching the settlement ladies in their white dresses, with their baskets of milk and eggs. Better to starve, her father said in her ear, than to accept the worm that dangles on their hook.
Her teacher’s eyes widened—and for a panicked moment Kreindel worried that she’d said her thought aloud.
“Miss Levy?” A girl at the island raised a pleading hand. “My filling don’t look right.”
The woman excused herself and left Kreindel’s
