Tears filled her eyes—but she wiped them away. Her father was a holy man, and the Almighty had set him on this course. She would not be so faithless as to doubt their purpose.
Leaving the note where it was, Kreindel crept back through the synagogue and opened the door—and only then did she see the rising smoke, and hear the cries of the gathering crowd.
* * *
The Golem was halfway home when she realized she’d forgotten her cloak.
At first she considered turning around. To be out alone this late, in only her shirtwaist and skirt, was tantamount to solicitation. But she couldn’t bear the thought of going back and knocking shamefacedly on his door; and so she kept on, hurrying north on Broadway, past shuttered shops that glowed beneath the streetlights.
This is not my fault, she thought angrily. But how could she explain to him what she’d felt from Mrs. Hazboun? The swell of excitement, hope, and lust; the image of him naked in her bed; the dark despair that lay beneath it, the fear of her husband’s fists—all of it colored by the opium that made her thoughts move like batter poured from a bowl. And then—
Your Jewess, the tall girl who dresses like a schoolteacher—
—she’d seen herself: a spindly, unattractive woman in buttoned boots and a dowdy cloak, her pale face pinched and querulous. A caricature, and a deeply uncharitable one—but on the heels of the woman’s fantasies, it had seemed a confirmation of all her self-doubts. He’ll tire of you, and break his promise, the image seemed to say. It’s only a matter of time. It had wounded her; and since she couldn’t lash out at Alma Hazboun, she’d lashed out at the Jinni instead.
If you were a jinniyeh. Had he ever so much as said the word before?
She turned east onto Grand, wincing as a driver whistled at her from a passing wagon. She doubted anyone would honestly mistake her for a prostitute, but the policemen must make their quotas. She imagined spending the night in a cell, and explaining her tardiness to the Radzins in the morning.
At Lafayette she heard footsteps from the south: quick and determined, timed to intersect with hers. Afraid, she reached out, but felt nothing—and thus knew exactly who it was, even before she turned and saw him there, holding her cloak.
Her first reaction was stark relief, but this only angered her further. She kept on, increasing her already considerable pace.
“Chava,” he said, hurrying to catch up to her. “Wait.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
A look of genuine hurt flashed across his face. It tugged at her conscience, and she might’ve relented—except that now a strange fear crept into her mind. She needed to get out, to wake the children and the neighbors; to grab her wedding photograph from the wall and the silver-plated candlesticks, and hurry down the stairwell—
Confused, she looked up—and saw the smoke, the glow in the sky.
“Chava?” But then he, too, came alert.
Something on Forsyth Street was burning.
The fire had begun on the second floor with a smoldering cigarette, its owner waking to find his bedroom in flames. An open window then beckoned the fire into an air-shaft, which drew it upward, toward the roof. The building was an “Old Law” tenement, built before the reforms, and so there were no iron staircases or brick partitions to slow the fire’s progress—only old, dry wood from one end of the building to the other.
The Golem rounded the corner onto Forsyth, the Jinni close behind. They saw it all at once: the growing crowd, the billowing darkness, the flickers of orange and red. Residents were pouring onto the street in their night-clothes, coughing and crying, carrying children, feather-beds, dining-chairs. Their terror pulled at the Golem, straining what was left of her composure. She needed to help, but how—
“Father!”
The cry came from a small, thin girl who stood nearby in a synagogue doorway. Her fear ripped through the Golem’s mind, and in its wake was an image: a bearded, emaciated man huddled in a parlor corner, surrounded by flames. He was ill, and helpless; and she had to save him.
The girl dashed across the street, slipped through the crowd, and ran into the burning building. And in the next moment, unable to stop herself, the Golem was running after her.
7.
In the stairwell, Kreindel covered her face with her smock and kept on climbing.
She was alone now, the last of the residents having run past her. The smoke grew thicker with each step, and by the time she reached the fourth floor she could barely breathe. The door to the hallway was closed, the knob too hot to touch. She grasped it with her skirt, and pushed.
The heat struck her bodily. She inhaled in shock and began to cough. She could see only a few feet ahead; beyond that was a reddish darkness. The sound of the flames was that of a nearby engine, or a crowd of men all muttering at once.
Father. She had to reach him.
She took a step, and then another.
Someone behind the Golem was calling her name.
She ignored it and kept on running, then threaded her way into the crowd. Men and women were staggering down the steps, rags clutched to their faces. A man at the top blocked her path, saying, “Lady, whatever’s up there ain’t—”
“Let me pass.”
She barely recognized her own voice. It was too deep, and drained of all musicality, her guise of humanity slipping away. The man drew aside in fear, and she was through.
“Chava!” the Jinni called again—but it was too late, she’d disappeared into the building. He was trying to push through the crowd after her when a police wagon arrived, its siren splitting the air. The men jumped out at once and swarmed the sidewalk, linking arms to form a cordon that herded the bystanders into the street. The
