down the street. I bought one of the local Jewish newspapers, in English and Hebrew, more for the novelty than the reading. I also found a book by Maimonides, A Guide for the Perplexed, for only a few shillings, and thought I might see why he was such a favorite of Pokrzywa's. The book, as it turned out, was an attempt to reconcile Jewish doctrine with the Hellenistic teachings of Plato and Aristotle and had been written during the Middle Ages.
I returned to the cafй, ordered a second cup, and even hazarded a bialy, though it was several minutes before I dared the first bite. Begrudgingly, I had to admit that my employer was right. Being up and about was preferable to staying in bed all day, moaning into my pillow. So I sat in the outdoor cafй, reading the Jewish Chronicle, with a bialy, coffee, and a copy of Maimonides, not realizing how Jewish I myself appeared, in my long black coat, curling hair, and bowler hat, until I was interrupted.
A set of knuckles rapped roughly at my table. I looked up over my newspaper at a fellow I'd never seen before, a tall, well-built Jew in his twenties, with a stern face and a long beard. He looked at me intently and said, 'Sholem aleichem.'
'Aleichem sholem,' I replied. It was the response Barker had given Zangwill, a few days before, which had impressed the little teacher greatly. The charm worked for me as well, for the fellow nodded once, as if I had given the correct password. He leaned his head to one side and raised his chin, motioning for me to follow him. It was just the sort of break, I realized, that Barker was looking for. I threw down a shilling, gathered my book and paper, and trotted off after the fellow. I only wished I could have had time to write some sort of note to my employer.
I followed him down Brick Lane for several blocks, then he stepped into a warren of doss-houses and ended up on Flower and Dean Street. From there he went into a small court. Where was he taking me, and why all the dodges and turns? After a dozen more yards, I realized we were not alone. There were several silent men moving in our direction. The court was dominated by a set of steps going down in the middle, not unlike an entrance to the underground, save for a large sign at the back that read 'Oriental Bazaar.'
Down we plunged into semi-darkness. I smelled spices in the air, and incense. The only illumination here was from the opening overhead and dozens of flickering candles. I saw men squatting on the ground, patiently awaiting customers or playing at cards. There were shining copper pots for sale, bags of saffron, rice, and betel nut, and bookstalls in which not one title was in English. For a moment again, I was not in London. I might just as well have been in Cairo or Calcutta. At the foot of the steps, I heard rather than saw my companions turning left and going back alongside the stairway, down a hall full of underground booths. We came up to an open public house, and at the far end, a bar. The proprietor, without a word, lifted the hinged bar with one hand and waved us through. We passed through a green baize curtain behind, into a large room. Even as I crossed the threshold, a young man on a soap-box had begun speaking.
'Greetings to you, gentlemen of Zion. I address you all in English today, for I can see Sephardim and Ashkenazim alike before me. Forgive this sudden summons from your daily activities. There is in London today a grave threat to our well-being. How many of you have known firsthand the deprivations and cruelty inflicted upon us by the goyim in Russia and Poland?' There was a sudden murmur. 'I thought as much. Do you feel you have arrived at a place of safety? Is your journey over? Louis Pokrzywa thought it was, and look where it got him. Will he be the last Jew in London to give up his life, or is this just one more beginning of anti-Semitic sentiments in a foreign land? Do you not realize that we shall be continually persecuted until we are restored unto our homeland in Palestine? England has been generous in taking in our widows and orphans, but I fear we are no more safe here than we were in Moscow, Kiev, or Odessa.
'But I have not come to speak to you about Zionism. That is in the future. What of now? Sirs, our unknown adversaries are emboldened by our timidity. Our fear gives them courage. Certainly, not all Englishmen wish us ill. I say to you, stand fast! We can go no further west. It is time to turn and fight!
'Do you think Rabbi Ben Loew will build a golem to defend us as he did in Prague three hundred years ago? If so, you are naive. To this day, we do not know where the clay remains are hidden. It is up to us, then, to build our own golem, to patrol our own streets. We cannot be complacent and rely upon the London Metropolitan Police to safeguard our interests. I cannot speak for every one of you; each one of us must weigh his personal needs against the common good. I merely wish to state that there comes a time when one must put aside commercial interests and lift the sword. Those of you who are willing to defend your people in Aldgate, Spitalfields, and Whitechapel, please leave your names and addresses at the door. Your women, your little brothers and sisters, and your old men look to you for support and safety. How shall you young lions of Judah respond?'
The speaker stepped back, and by some prearranged cue, the gaslights were extinguished and the baize curtain raised. I noticed several fellows by the door with clipboards. Men were almost forcing their names on them. As I brushed by, I saw a few stares in my direction. I found myself in an absurd position. I was no Jew, and yet I felt as if I was betraying them by not leaving my name and address. Also, I was already in the employ of a man hired to combat this very evil, yet I could not reveal that fact now. As it was, I lowered my head and slunk from the room, with an inexplicable feeling of guilt.
Back in Flower and Dean Street, I watched the meeting gradually disperse. Reasoning that Barker might have returned and be concerned for my welfare, I began to wend my way back to Brick Lane when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped.
'So, there was a wolf among the sheep, eh?' Israel Zangwill said, an ironic smile on his face. He wore a coat with an Astrakhan collar and a Homburg hat.
'No wolves,' I assured him with a laugh. 'Merely a Gentile dog, trying to guard the sheep. Somehow I got scooped up in the shearing. Did you sign up?'
'Of course.' The little teacher looked at me seriously.
'Without knowing the plans? Or do you know?'
'Not a word. But I trust them all the same. The speaker was Asher Cowen, a good fellow. He's helped organize some soup kitchens in the area and a center for our aged. Asher gets things done. So, how progresses the investigation?'
'To be truthful, I have no idea. This is my first case. I was only hired a couple of weeks ago. Mr. Barker keeps his opinions close to his vest.'
Zangwill smiled. I think I had won him over with my candor. 'You surprise me, Mr. Llewelyn. Ira Moskowitz has us convinced that you are a master spy and detective. You are his hero, now, I believe.'
The idea seemed patently ridiculous. 'There is no wretch less worthy of being worshipped than I, Mr. Zangwill.'
'Israel, please. I won't disabuse Ira of his fantasy just yet. It has caused him to clean up his room somewhat, though he rather neglects his studies now for the works of Poe and Collins.'
'I regret coming between him and his studies.'
'He's always looking for an excuse. But come, must you rush off to meet your mysterious boss, or can you stop for a cup of coffee?'
I thought it over for a moment. I didn't know whether Barker was frantic over my disappearance or off somewhere about his business without a care about me. Certainly, I should find out, but it might be helpful to stop and talk with Zangwill. He'd already been involved in much of the case.
'If we could stop by the Bucharest for a moment, I'll check in with Mr. Barker. I'd enjoy a cup of coffee with you.'
'Excellent!' the teacher cried. 'We'll stop, and then I'll take you to my club.' He broke into a grin. With his long nose and wide smile, he looked like Shakespeare's Puck.
'You belong to a club?'
'Of course. Come along, then.'
We headed west, one hand in our respective pockets, and the other firm on the brims of our hats, for the north wind was growing blustery.
'So,' I said, 'what exactly is a golem?'
'He is a large creature made of clay, brought to life by magic, rather like Frankenstein's monster. A famous rabbi brought him to life to defend the Jews of Prague a few centuries ago, if one believes the legend.'
'This fellow Cowen surely doesn't intend to build a magical golem of clay, does he?'
'Why not? We've done it before, we can do it again.'
'I find a clay man marching around the East End a trifle hard to believe,' I confessed.
