The monster held the body of a child over his head to throw it in the water. The baby wailed and the rabbi cried at the golem to stop. The golem paused, still holding the child in the air, and the rabbi was afraid he’d lost his power over it. But then the golem put the child down without hurting it and followed the rabbi meekly back into the ghetto and up the stairs to the shul attic. The rabbi commanded the golem to lie down, and when it did, he covered the clay man with prayer books, then spent the rest of the day alone with it in the attic. At sundown, the Kohen and the Levite came to the attic. The three men reversed the process of creation, and the golem was turned back into lifeless clay.

And forever after that, the Jews of Prague lived in peace.

Rachel turned to the front of the book and looked at the date. The book had been copyrighted in 1932 and reprinted in 1940. Where were the Jews of Prague now, she wondered. She turned the pages back to the golem story, ignoring the others. She sat in the dusty sunlight surrounded by boxes of her old books and notes, and Adam’s things, and looked at the pictures again. They were vivid and gruesome, and she wasn’t surprised that they’d stayed with her in some corner of her mind all these years and had come back when Ableson said clay. There was something especially frightening and unwholesome about the illustrations. About the whole story. She shut the book and carried it downstairs. The weather was still mild and she put Leah in her stroller and, carrying the book, walked the two blocks to the little house the men had bought and converted into a shul. The sun was bright, the vestibule of the shul dim, and she was blinded. She saw the box of books and clothes the congregation collected every month for the children’s hospital in Tel Aviv, but she didn’t see Isaac Luria sitting in the corner of the lobby at a table. She put the book in the box and left. When the door closed, he put down the silver spice box he’d been polishing and went to the box.

By January Rachel still hadn’t agreed to a wedding date, and Allan lost patience with her.

“Rachel, what do you want? Tell me what you want.” She didn’t answer. Allan stood in front of her and held his arms away from his nude body.

“I’m young . . . youngish.” He looked down at himself. “Handsome, rich; look at that gut.” He hit himself, trying to be funny, but she wanted to cry, and he came back to her and sat on the bed next to her and took her in his arms. “What do you want, baby, try to tell me. I want to understand . . .”

“Adam’s only been dead . . .”