knew the same as I did the results were coming this afternoon. You’re punishing me because you didn’t do as well. But that doesn’t matter, Gadi, it doesn’t! I believe in you.”
He walked away from her to stand in the center of the courtyard, looking around warily as if the house might attack him. He was as uneasy as if he were hitting her. The house of course would attack with sonics if he were doing physical damage. “I’ve got to get out, Shira. We’re dying, the two of us. We’re dying together. Don’t you feel it?”
She stared at him as he stood braced, seeming taller than he ever had, or perhaps her knees were buckling. He was lost to her. She wanted to die. There was no more Shira, only bleeding meat, a roaring vacuum. Couldn’t he see he was killing both of them? They were a double organism, one being. “All I feel now is pain.” She would put an ocean between them. She would punish Malkah for insulting her love and Gadi for betraying it; she would go far, far from both of them, to Europa. She would take Avram’s advice and remove herself to Paris, to Prague, to Edinburgh. Anywhere far away from here.
SEVEN
Under No Moon
The Maharal is speared through by what he has conceived, a task he can neither persuade himself to proceed with nor allow himself to abandon. Is this unbridled ambition? He quizzes himself incessantly. Making a golem stands as the masterwork of a true practitioner of kabbalah. Does he fear that he might fail? Is he afraid to risk himself in that ultimate attempt to harness the power of the Word in creation? Is he afraid to fail, or is he afraid to succeed? He has been a man of peace, a rabbi, a teacher, a sage whose influence is exerted through the power of the law, the force of intellect, the charisma of a strong character. This contemplated manufacture of a weapon would be a commitment to taking action in the world. He is halfway to making a force capable of violence. Is that not a negation of the values by which he has lived—study and prayer and good works?
He tries to think to whom he can turn. His wife? The rebitzin, Perl, is four years older than her husband and wise in entirely other ways: she has learned through the years how to run a household on hope, how to cook feasts out of not much, how to hide money from a man who would give the last cent away, how to intercede between Judah and his children, who were expected to be far holier than they desired. Judah and Perl had been engaged for ten years before the rabbi had enough money to marry her. Her own father had lost all his money (which had never amounted to much except in his reminiscences) when his business failed. She had waited all that time, running a bakery and saving for the day when they would finally be together as husband and wife.
When she was thirty and he was twenty-six, they finally married. Perl gave birth to six daughters and to one son, of all those children who lived beyond infancy. She started late and she continued late. She bore her last daughter when she was fifty-two and her oldest daughter was also pregnant.
To say that Perl adores Judah would be true; to say she worships him would not. She is perhaps the only person whoknows Judah well but does not fear his temper, for she has one of her own. She is used to giving orders, to managing a bakery, to keeping track of details and pennies. She is a big woman with a still handsome ruddy face. She had been zoftik in her middle years, but age has whittled at her so that her bones are more obvious now than her flesh. She has strong hands, big enough to engulf the slender shapely hands of Judah. Her pelt of white hair is kept clipped to ringlets that look like lamb fleece under the henna-red wig she wears as a respectable wife whose hair might tempt the angels.
All the daughters married, two of them to the same Itzak Cohen, for after his young bride Leah died of pneumonia from a cold that should have passed off easily, he married the next sister,
He walked away from her to stand in the center of the courtyard, looking around warily as if the house might attack him. He was as uneasy as if he were hitting her. The house of course would attack with sonics if he were doing physical damage. “I’ve got to get out, Shira. We’re dying, the two of us. We’re dying together. Don’t you feel it?”
She stared at him as he stood braced, seeming taller than he ever had, or perhaps her knees were buckling. He was lost to her. She wanted to die. There was no more Shira, only bleeding meat, a roaring vacuum. Couldn’t he see he was killing both of them? They were a double organism, one being. “All I feel now is pain.” She would put an ocean between them. She would punish Malkah for insulting her love and Gadi for betraying it; she would go far, far from both of them, to Europa. She would take Avram’s advice and remove herself to Paris, to Prague, to Edinburgh. Anywhere far away from here.
SEVEN
Under No Moon
The Maharal is speared through by what he has conceived, a task he can neither persuade himself to proceed with nor allow himself to abandon. Is this unbridled ambition? He quizzes himself incessantly. Making a golem stands as the masterwork of a true practitioner of kabbalah. Does he fear that he might fail? Is he afraid to risk himself in that ultimate attempt to harness the power of the Word in creation? Is he afraid to fail, or is he afraid to succeed? He has been a man of peace, a rabbi, a teacher, a sage whose influence is exerted through the power of the law, the force of intellect, the charisma of a strong character. This contemplated manufacture of a weapon would be a commitment to taking action in the world. He is halfway to making a force capable of violence. Is that not a negation of the values by which he has lived—study and prayer and good works?
He tries to think to whom he can turn. His wife? The rebitzin, Perl, is four years older than her husband and wise in entirely other ways: she has learned through the years how to run a household on hope, how to cook feasts out of not much, how to hide money from a man who would give the last cent away, how to intercede between Judah and his children, who were expected to be far holier than they desired. Judah and Perl had been engaged for ten years before the rabbi had enough money to marry her. Her own father had lost all his money (which had never amounted to much except in his reminiscences) when his business failed. She had waited all that time, running a bakery and saving for the day when they would finally be together as husband and wife.
When she was thirty and he was twenty-six, they finally married. Perl gave birth to six daughters and to one son, of all those children who lived beyond infancy. She started late and she continued late. She bore her last daughter when she was fifty-two and her oldest daughter was also pregnant.
To say that Perl adores Judah would be true; to say she worships him would not. She is perhaps the only person whoknows Judah well but does not fear his temper, for she has one of her own. She is used to giving orders, to managing a bakery, to keeping track of details and pennies. She is a big woman with a still handsome ruddy face. She had been zoftik in her middle years, but age has whittled at her so that her bones are more obvious now than her flesh. She has strong hands, big enough to engulf the slender shapely hands of Judah. Her pelt of white hair is kept clipped to ringlets that look like lamb fleece under the henna-red wig she wears as a respectable wife whose hair might tempt the angels.
All the daughters married, two of them to the same Itzak Cohen, for after his young bride Leah died of pneumonia from a cold that should have passed off easily, he married the next sister,
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