The Fifth Servant (56 page)

           
That seemed to settle the matter.

           
I laid the scraper aside and picked up a polished silver comb.

           
“This may hurt a little,” I said softly, as I combed my friend’s hair out of his half-closed eyes, making sure not to tug on the roots too hard. Rabbi Loew set out a pair of decorative scissors and commenced the solemn task of cutting the fringes off a
tallis
. Then we lifted up our Sephardic brother, wrapped him in this sacred shroud, and laid him out on a plain wooden board. I had never seen him put on a regular prayer shawl during the time that we had shared a thin strip of bedding in the rabbi’s attic, but we have a saying,
All brides are beautiful, and all the dead are holy
.

           
Rabbi Gans held a sputtering torch in one hand and led our simple procession through the maze of crooked headstones. The rats scattered as we squeezed past the monuments, Rabbi Ha-Koen and I shouldering the bier together, with Rabbi Loew following after, taking great care to keep his hands clean for the ceremony. All the while, I was keeping four cold torches hidden under my cloak, belted to my body.

           
Rabbi Gans led us along an invisible path to the highest point in the cemetery, so the Christians would be able to see us from the top of the embankment on the other side of the wall.

           
A distant church bell tolled the hour, but I lost count of the number of rings.

           
Rabbi Loew pulled his prayer shawl tighter against the dampness and quietly began the truly spiritual part of our little ceremony.

           
“The mystics say that on the day of his death, a man feels as if he has lived but a single day, because this world is but a temporary shelter, and the World-to-Come is our true home. And so we are never fully at home in the world,” he said. “Our
khaver
Mikha’el Acosta wasn’t a scholarly man, but just as one ear of corn is not exactly like another, we will not see his like again, and we are all diminished by his passing.”

           
“
Omeyn
,” we said.

           
“You knew him as well as any of us, Ben-Akiva. Would you like to say a few words?” he asked.

           
I thought of so many things—quotes from the Psalms, the Prophets, the mystics, the Rabbis—but in the end I just swallowed and said, “He knew how to react to a situation without having to stop and think about it. He was one of those men who always seem to know the right thing to do and the right time to do it, which comes as close to the definition of a hero as anything I can think of.”

           
“
Omeyn
.”

           
We couldn’t recite the Mourner’s Kaddish without a
minyen
, but I couldn’t help hearing the words in my head:
Yisgadal v’yiskadash shmey rabo
…

           
Rabbi Loew continued the invocations while I undid my belt and let the bundle of torches slip to the ground.

           
“May his memory be for a blessing, may his merit protect us, and may his soul be granted eternal life, for his resting place is Eden.”

           
We lowered Acosta’s body into the narrow grave, so far from the soil of his native land, and took turns scattering a bit of earth from the Holy Land over his limbs, mixed in with spadefuls of sandy earth deposited by the river. And so the departed was laid to rest.

           
Then we started to play the drama game the way our mother Judith taught us during the reign of King Nebuchadnezzar. Rabbi Gans planted the torch in the freshly dug earth and receded into the shadows while I took center stage.

           
“Master of the Universe!” I cried. “When will you redeem us?”

           
The answer seemed to come from the bare branches swaying in the breeze: “
When you have gone down to the very bottom of the pit. In that hour I shall redeem you
.”

           
“It is time to revive his soul,” I announced.

           
By the reddish light of the flaming torch, I made a show of swinging the
kleperl
high above our heads, and bringing it down hard, banging on the ground three times to wake the spirit of our comrade.

           
Then I inclined my head so I could present the powerful wooden staff to Rabbi Loew.

           
Rabbi Loew cleared his throat and spoke loud enough for his words to drift over the wall.

           
“First we set out a cup of wine, for the dead are always thirsty.”

           
Rabbi Gans played his part well, scrambling to fulfill the rabbi’s instructions.

           
Rabbi Loew commanded him to draw three concentric circles around the grave, and Rabbi Gans dutifully took the
kleperl
and inscribed the circles in the earth with the magical staff.

           
Then Rabbi Loew initiated the ritual in earnest, raising his arms up to heaven and declaring, “O, Ancient One, O Patient King, O Fourfold God, O Guardian of Israel who neither slumbers nor sleeps, look down on your helpers—I, Yehudah ben Betzalel, who was born under the sign of the wind, Isaac ben Shimshon, who was born under the sign of water, Benyamin Ben-Akiva, who was born under the sign of fire, and Dovid ben Solomon, who was born under the sign of the earth. Combine the power of these elements into the soil which we now form into a man, and breathe the breath of life into his nostrils.”

           
On the other side of the wall, a motley group of Christians was gathering on the horizon, the light from their torches glowing like wolves’ eyes in the night.

           
Rabbi Loew went on: “Hear our prayer, O Lord, Whose eyes saw our un-formed limbs while they were still in the womb and wrote them in His book,” he said, paraphrasing the only occurrence of the word
golem
in the Bible—the Psalms, which he now recited in Hebrew: “
Golmi rohu eynekho, ve’al sifrekho kulom yikoseyvu.”

           
We kneeled in the earth and fashioned a man of clay while Rabbi Loew said the magical words,
Ato Bra Goylem Devuk Hakhomer V’tigzar Zeydim Khevel Torfe Yisroel
. Make a Golem of clay who will destroy all the enemies of Israel.

           
Then the three rabbis walked around the lifeless mound of clay and proclaimed that the damp earth had dried, while I kept my head down and carefully unwrapped the torches, cradling them in my arms to protect them from the moisture. Thank God the tips of the torches were still dry. Then they made a second round and declared that the creature’s limbs had joined. On the third round they cried out in wonder, beholding that God was imparting vitality to the earth, which began to glow from the heat. On the fourth and fifth rounds they swore that his organs had formed and his orifices had opened, on the sixth round the life force entered through his nostrils and the fires of creation burned as brightly as a blacksmith’s forge.

           
I was on my knees, preparing to ignite the bundle of torches as the rabbis paraded around me, throwing distorted shadows in every direction.

           
“I didn’t realize this would be such hard work for you,” said Rabbi Gans.

           
“Hey, if making a golem were easy, anyone could do it,” I said.

           
Rabbi Loew shushed us as they began the seventh and final circuit, calling on the prophet Elijah.

           
“O,
Elyohu hanovi
, we know that you are a man of God, and that the word of God in your mouth is truth, and that God sends us the gift of life through you when we inscribe the word
truth
on the forehead of this man of clay, so that by the time the sun rises, our golem will walk the earth!”

           
Rabbi Loew bent his aging bones as if he were writing the word
emes
in the mound of dirt, and the flames shot up into the air, nearly scorching the branches overhead. Then I threw a wet blanket over the torches and snuffed them out with a sizzle. But I turned away too late, and the smoke went up my nose and into my eyes, and the others had to drag me away from the pyre. I lay in the wet grass, coughing and hacking, and blinded by the sudden plunge into darkness.

           
As soon as I was able to see the plumes of smoke rising, Rabbi Gans kneeled beside me and suggested that we might be able to combine our make-believe golem with another frightening effect. Using his lenses and other materials to construct what the Christians call a magic lantern, he could project a grotesque image such as a likeness of the devil on the walls and gates, or even low-lying clouds, and terrorize the enemy—if only one of us could paint such an image, in all its terrifying aspects, on a flat pane of glass.

           
“I know just the fellow,” I said, as the rabbis helped me to my feet.

           
I could see the flickering outlines of people on the embankment as they scurried away to spread the word about our Jewish magic.

           
I brushed myself off and described the way to Langweil’s studio. Then we washed our hands, and left the cemetery. Rabbi Gans hustled off to search for Langweil, and I told Rabbi Loew that if all went well, I’d be back under his roof within an hour.

           
“Where are you going?”

           
“I’m going to bring our friend back to life.”

           
ZINGER SAT IN THE MIDDLE of the circle of gaily painted women, doing what he did best, getting cheap laughs and bringing a little levity to their earthbound souls.

           
“There are certain words that just shouldn’t exist,” he said. “Like
bishopric
. I mean, what are you supposed to think when they say a word like that? I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to think about what a
bishopric
is.” His shoulders quivered in a stageworthy shudder.

           
The girls all laughed.

           
“Look, we don’t have much time,” I said. “Could we get on with this?”

           
The hostess looked me over with the green eyes of a jealous goddess. “And what have you been doing, rolling around in a mud puddle?”

           
“Mud would be a step up from what I’ve been rolling in,” I said. “Where’s Trine?”

           
A few titters escaped from their shiny red lips.

           
“Keep your pants on, Mr. Shammes. She’s coming.”

           
The girls tittered again. I didn’t like it any better the second time. I reached into the circle, grabbed Zinger by the hand, and pulled him away from his adoring audience.

           
The hostess made a number of comments about my questionable parentage as I directed Zinger to the archway and marched him all the way back to Trine’s room.

           
I knocked on the door, but she didn’t answer. The space under the bottom panel yielded no clues, so I crouched down and looked through the keyhole—
yes, I admit it
—but it was too dark to see anything. But the one next door was letting some light slip through.

           
I found her in Yosele’s room, taking the knots out of the big fellow’s hair with a wooden comb.

           
I made some quick introductions, but Zinger just stood there staring at this overgrown child, seemingly at a loss for words, which was fine with me because I wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter.

           
“He’s like a trained bear,” Trine said, dragging the comb through Yosele’s thick, matted hair. “We’ve trained him to sit at the table, and use a knife and fork, but he’s still a bear. And sometimes he goes back to being one—” she said, pulling at a particularly tough knot.

           
“Well, what do you think?” I asked.

           
Zinger looked him over. “Well…with some raised shoes, maybe even a pair of special stilts concealed under extra-long pantaloons, only a couple feet long, nothing too obvious, then if we cover his clothes with a layer of mud and smear his face and hands with earth, it just might work—”

           
“Wait a minute,” said Trine. “What might work?”

           
“We need to make him look like a golem,” I said.

           
“Oh, no, you don’t. Not with my Yosele. Who do you think you are, Rabbi Elijah of Chelm? You wouldn’t even know how to keep him out of the pantry. Why, if I let him have all the sweets he wanted, he’d blow up like a fatted calf.”

           
“That’s exactly why we need your help.”

           
“And what do I get out of this marvelous deal?”