The bedroom was dark and close, the scent of earth overwhelming. At once, as though the key had unlocked the thought, Kreindel realized why it was so familiar: it was the smell of the construction pit beneath the unfinished bridge, where the tenement boys liked to play.
Her father put a match to the lamp, and at last the room was illuminated.
There was a man lying on her father’s bed.
She jumped back, and might have screamed, but her father’s hand clamped over her mouth. “Shhh,” he hissed. “No one must know.” She nodded, heart pounding, and he removed his hand.
The man was only partly there. One leg was missing, as well as the accompanying hip. He had two arms, but only one hand, and the arms themselves were like thick noodles, without joints or muscles. His face had depressions for eyes, a rough triangular nose, and a lipless line where a mouth ought to be. But he was, unquestionably, a man: tall and thick-chested, his solitary hand more than twice the span of Kreindel’s own. She crept to the bedside as though afraid of waking him, placed a hand on his chest, and felt the cool, firm clay beneath her fingers.
“Do you know what this is?” her father asked.
“A golem,” Kreindel breathed.
* * *
“Thea asked for my opinion on fur stoles this morning,” said the Golem.
It was a clear winter night, cold and crisp. They were walking west along Broome Street, with the aim of heading north into Chelsea so the Jinni could see the enormous construction site at Seventh Avenue, the one destined to become a new train station. Four blocks of the Tenderloin had been razed for the purpose, their residents, most of them Negroes, forced to find shelter elsewhere. The Golem had been angered at the unfairness of it; and while the Jinni agreed with the sentiment, he couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the scale and ambition of the project. He didn’t want to argue about it, so he’d decided to keep quiet while she went on about Thea’s quandary regarding mink versus ermine—were those colors or animals? Safer not to ask . . . Apparently the train station was to be entirely steel-framed, and the Jinni was intrigued by the possibilities—far more so than by the cast-iron facades here on Broome, which were poured and cooled in giant molds, a technique that bored him beyond measure. Why put all the artistry in the mold, and not in the iron itself? What was the point of working with iron if one did not truly work it?
Something the Golem had said managed to pierce through his musings. “Wait,” he said. “An award? What award?”
“The Man of the Year, from the Lower East Side Merchants’ Association,” the Golem said again. “‘For Enlarging Our Vision of Tomorrow’s Bakery.’ It’s why Thea wants a stole, for the award luncheon. She thinks her usual coat is too dowdy, even though Selma said, and I agreed, that the—”
“But do you mean that Moe won this ‘Man of the Year’?”
The Golem sighed. She’d tried to sneak Moe’s award into the conversation when his attention was elsewhere, knowing that otherwise it was bound to start an argument—because the truth was that the startling success of the bakery’s expansion was her own doing just as much as Moe’s. Yes, the new ovens turned out twice as many goods as before, and the gleaming new display case gave the customers a full and tempting view of the day’s selection—but it was the Golem’s new hires who’d pushed the endeavor into greatness. She’d trained them in record time, and along the way they’d absorbed something of her manner as well, rolling and mixing with a crisp precision that was mesmerizing to watch. Once the Golem had noticed this effect, she’d suggested placing their worktables in a row at the front of the shop, so that all the customers could admire their skills as they waited. Moe had agreed with little thought, not caring at all where the tables went—and then, like everyone else, had been shocked by the result. Simply to watch the women work was an entertainment in itself. Passersby who’d never set foot in Radzin’s would spy them through the plate-glass windows and be lured inside. A simple trip to the baker’s, once a dull and ordinary errand, now had the feel of an exhibition, an event—and the customers, their spirits brightened, often bought more than they’d planned.
“Chava, that should be your award, not Moe’s!” the Jinni said.
“Oh, that’s not true,” she replied at once. “The expansion was all Moe’s idea, I never would’ve dared. And the girls deserve credit, too, they’re such diligent workers—”
“Yes, because you trained them to be! You don’t want to go about bragging, I understand—but if there are more customers per hour, and each customer is spending more—”
“Yes, I’ve done the calculations,” she said, growing irritated.
But the Jinni wasn’t finished. “Maybe Moe could’ve succeeded without you, but not like this. He certainly wouldn’t have won that award. You’re the one who ‘enlarged their vision,’ Chava. Not him.”
“Oh, stop needling me. Why does it matter if he should win an award or not? It’s not as though they’d make me their Man of the Year.”
“But does he understand? Does he know that you’re the reason?”
“He’s begun to wonder,” she muttered, “whether he simply has a natural talent for these things.”
The Jinni snorted angrily. “Idiot.”
“That’s easy to say when you know something he doesn’t. But why do I feel it’s me you’re angry with?”
“Because you seem content to let him think he’s . . .” He waved his hands, searching.
“The ‘cock of the walk’?”
“Yes, that. And perhaps you can’t go to this association and say, Excuse me, you’re mistaken about Mr. Radzin. But don’t you wish that you could? Aren’t you the least bit angry?”
She shook her head. “What good would my anger do?”
“None whatsoever! But it would be true, and honest, and understandable!”
“But I can’t!” The words came out louder, sharper than
