Suddenly Weiser’s face was full of contempt. “You putz,” he said, “sure it worked. Eight crazy men, you tell me. Sorely tried. You know what that says to me? It says Dachau or Buchenwald or Auschwitz. I was in Buchenwald.”

Tepel leaned toward him, but Weiser waved him back.

“I don’t care if you were there. I didn’t know you. I didn’t know your dead brother or father or son. I don’t want to know. I was there,” Weiser said, “like you were, like they were. Maybe they found virgin clay in the middle of Poland, but I doubt it. And maybe all this gibberish made a monster out of that clay, but I doubt that too.”

Garfield was confused by Weiser’s attack. “But it’s there. I know it is. Whether you believe me . . .”

“Okay, I believe you. Okay, it moves, it breathes, it kills. Good. They could have made it out of chopped liver and written ‘walk, don’t walk’ on its forehead and their hate would move it. You want to stop it from killing? I don’t know why you should unless it killed your son, but as long as you do, and as long as I hear you’re a good man, and even though I don’t know what that means, I’ll help you. You want to stop it? Hate as much as they do. Get as angry. Make your voice shake with rage as you spiel out all that drek, then raise your hand to the monster’s forehead. On it will be this word—Emet, the seal of the Holy One.” He wrote Hebrew characters on his napkin. “Then with that hand of yours trembling with fury, rub out the aleph.”

Weiser crossed out the aleph and held the napkin up for Garfield to see.

“Read it,” Weiser said.

It said met—dead.

Weiser said, “Then, if your passion matches theirs, maybe it’ll die.”

§§§§ Strong man.

¶¶¶¶ The ten men needed to make a shul.

3

Chapter 3