The Golem and the Djinni. Helene Wecker

of everyone!” snapped the Rabbi. “So perhaps I’m guilty of only looking after my own kind. That too is a natural instinct, whatever your philosophers might say.”

      “But we must grow beyond it! Why reinforce our differences, and keep ancient laws, and never know the joy of breaking bread with our neighbors?”

      “Because we are Jews!” his uncle shouted. “And that is how we live! Our laws remind us of who we are, and we gain strength from them! You, who are so eager to throw away your past—what will you replace it with? What will you use to keep the evil in Man from outbalancing the good?”

      “Laws that apply to everyone,” said Michael. “That put all men on equal footing. I’m no anarchist, Uncle, if that’s what worries you!”

      “But an atheist? Is that what you are now?”

      He could see no way around it. “Yes, I think I am,” he said, looking away to hide from the pain in his uncle’s eyes. For a long, miserable time after, Michael felt he might as well have struck the man across the face.

      They’d been slow to reconcile. Even now, years later, they only saw each other once a month or so. They kept to cordial small talk and avoided opinions on painful subjects. The Rabbi congratulated Michael on each success and spoke consoling words at his defeats—which were many, for Michael’s job was far from easy. When the previous supervisor, who’d insisted on only taking money from Jewish Socialist groups, had quit, the Sheltering House was weeks away from shuttering for lack of funds. Michael was invited to accept the position and saw for himself the many dozens of men in their dormitories. The weave of their clothes, the cut of their beards, and their vaguely bewildered air all marked them as fresh from the boat. These were the most vulnerable of the immigrants, most likely to be duped or swindled. He reviewed the House’s ledgers, which were in chaos. He accepted the position, then swallowed his pride and went to the local congregations and Jewish councils, begging for lifeblood. In exchange, advertisements for Sabbath services were posted on the notice board in the hallway, next to the announcements of party meetings.

      He still believed what he’d told his uncle. He attended no synagogue, said no prayers, and hoped that one day all men would lose their need for religion. But he knew that sweeping change only happened slowly, and he understood the value of pragmatism.

      The Rabbi saw the religious advertisements when he visited, but said nothing. He too seemed to regret the rift between them. They were practically each other’s only relations—Michael’s father having long since decamped for Chicago, leaving behind a dozen frustrated creditors—and in a neighborhood of sprawling families, Michael felt it keenly. So when the Rabbi came knocking on his office door that afternoon, Michael was truly glad to see him.

      “Uncle! What brings you here?” The men embraced, a bit formally. Michael had grown used to his own uncovered head, the lack of fringe beneath his vest; but he still felt naked in the man’s presence. Then he caught sight of the woman in the door’s shadow.

      “I’d like you to meet a new friend,” said the Rabbi. “Michael, this is Chava. She’s newly arrived in New York.”

      “I’m pleased to meet you,” the woman said. She was tall, taller than him by an inch or two. For a moment she seemed a dark and looming statue; but then she moved forward into the room, and was merely a woman in a plain shirtwaist, holding a cardboard box.

      Michael realized he was staring; he caught himself. “Likewise, of course! How long have you been here?”

      “Only a month.” She gave a small embarrassed smile, as if apologizing for her recent arrival.

      “Chava’s husband died on the voyage,” his uncle said. “She has no family in America. I’ve become her social worker, after a fashion.”

      Michael’s face fell. “My God, how terrible. I’m so sorry.”

      “Thank you.” It was a whisper.

      There was a moment of silence, awkward with the weight of her revealed widowhood. Then the woman seemed to notice the box in her hands. “I made these,” she said, a bit abruptly. “They were meant for your uncle, but I made too many. He suggested I bring them to you, and you could give them to the men who live here.” She held out the box to Michael.

      He opened it, unleashing a heavenly scent of butter and spices. The box was full of pastries, all different kinds: butter-horns, almond macaroons, spice cookies, sweet buns, gingersnaps. “You made all of these?” he said, incredulous. “Are you a baker?”

      The woman hesitated, but then smiled. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

      “Well, the men will certainly appreciate these. We’ll make sure everyone gets a piece.” He closed the box, fighting temptation. The almond macaroons in particular were making his mouth water; they’d been his favorite since childhood. “Thank you, Chava. This will be a great treat for them. I’ll take them straight to the kitchen.”

      “You should try a macaroon,” she said.

      He smiled. “I will. They’re my favorite, actually.”

      “I—” She seemed to catch hold of herself, then said, “I’m glad.”

      “Chava,” the Rabbi said, “perhaps you might wait for me in the parlor.”

      The woman nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said to Michael.

      “And you as well,” he replied. “And thank you, truly. On behalf of all the men.”

      She smiled, and withdrew into the hallway. For such a tall woman, she moved quite silently.

      “My God, what a tragedy for her!” Michael said when she was out of earshot. “I’m surprised she stayed in New York, instead of going back home.”

      “There was little there for her,” said his uncle. “In a way, she had no choice.”

      Michael frowned. “She isn’t living with you, is she?”

      “No, no,” his uncle said quickly. “She’s staying with a former congregant, for now. An old widow. But I must find her a more permanent living situation, and a job as well.”

      “That shouldn’t be difficult. She seems capable, if quiet.”

      “Yes, she’s very capable. But at the same time she’s almost painfully innocent. It makes me afraid for her. She’ll need to learn how to protect herself, to live in this city.”

      “At least she’ll have you to look out for her.”

      His uncle smiled grimly. “Yes. For now.”

      An idea had been forming in Michael’s mind; finally he gave it his attention. “You say you’re looking for a job for her?”

      “Yes. Not a sweatshop, if I can help it.”

      “Are you still in touch with Moe Radzin?”

      “We’re cordial enough to say hello on the street, I suppose.” He frowned. “You think there might be a job for Chava at Radzin’s?”

      “I was just there yesterday. The place was in chaos, and Moe was having fits. One of his assistants ran off to God knows where, and another is leaving to take care of her sister.” He smiled and pointed at the box. “If those taste as good as they look, then the bakery could use her. You should go talk to him.”

      “Yes,” the Rabbi said slowly. “It’s a possibility. But Moe Radzin …”

      “I know. He’s just as sour and unhappy as ever. But he’s fair, at least, and generous when he wants to be. The House gets all our bread from him, at discount. And his employees seem to respect him. Well, except for Thea.”

      The Rabbi snorted. Thea Radzin was a formidable complainer, the sort of woman who began conversations with a list of her ailments. Among her husband’s female employees she worked as a matchmaker in reverse, listing their defects to any man who showed an interest.