“I know,” Bianco said softly, looking at Rachel.

She leaned forward and Bianco realized that he’d never said this aloud before, and wasn’t sure how to do it. He had to get it out somehow, and he took a sip of brandy to get ready, but it went down wrong. He choked and gasped, tears ran down his face. He wiped them away and, still half choking, he said, “They built a monster shaped like a man.”

Hawkins looked like someone had slapped him. He was holding the thin glass too tight and Bianco was afraid it would break in his hand. Rachel didn’t even look surprised.

“And what did they build it out of?” Hawkins snarled.

“Clay.”

The glass did break. Bianco ran to get alcohol and a tweezer in case there was any glass stuck in Hawkins’s hand. Rachel and Bianco mopped up the blood and spilt brandy, and she put alcohol on the cuts, which weren’t deep.

“I don’t know what I expected to hear,” Hawkins whispered to her when Bianco went out to the kitchen for another glass and paper towels to dry the carpet. “Shit . . . not that. Not a clay man . . . anything but that . . .”

“I know, I understand. . . .” she said a little wildly, “But there’ve been others. There was one in Spain.” Hawkins stared at her. “And in Vilna, I think, and Krakow and Prague.” Bianco stood in the entrance to the room holding a roll of paper towels. Rachel went on. “The Prague golem was the most famous . . .”

“The what?” Bianco asked.

“Golem . . . the man of clay is a golem. The golem of Prague killed the Gentiles who killed the Jews. Like God in Egypt.” She stopped, then she said helplessly, “But they were legends.”

“This wasn’t a legend,” Bianco said.

“Then you saw it?” Rachel asked.

“No. Someone told me about it.”

“Who?” she asked.

“The commandant of Belzec, Johann Speiser.”

“And where’s the commandant now?” Hawkins asked.

“Hanged for war crimes, thirty-­six years ago.”

“So how . . .”

“He told me in Nuremberg, before he died.”

Bianco poured more brandy for them and sat across from Rachel so he could talk to her, convince her, because she was the one who would believe him. He remembered Speiser warning him that he didn’t want to hear this story; Speiser was right and Bianco knew he should warn this young woman, too. But he wasn’t going to and he felt guilty and elated at the same time, a little like a relay runner he thought—glad his stretch is done, and sorry for the one who starts running. She looked frail and he wondered how she’d manage. But that wasn’t his problem.