and . . .â
âI
know
that story,â Sammy blurted out.
Chaim became still again. That complete stillness. He looked carefully at Sammy and finally said, â
Do
you? I think you will find out more about it than you think. You will find out what makes a hero . . . and unmakes him.â
â
We
could, like, use a hero,â mused Skink.
âMeaning?â
âWell,â Sammy jumped into the conversation, âthereâs these bullies at school, and they jumped Skink and stuck my head in the toilet and . . .â
âWhat!!!!â Sammyâs father was up on his feet. âYou didnât tell us about the toilet, Sammy. Why didnât you tell us about that?â
Sammy shrugged. âIt was no big deal . . .â
Rabbi Chaim made an odd noise deep in his throat and interrupted. âBullying is
always
a big deal,â he said. âFor the bullies as well as those they prey upon. Thatâs why Reb Judah Loew, the chief rabbi of Prague, made a golem.â He spun away from them, went over to the bookcase, then came back with a small black book that he held up for them to see. It was definitely old, and looked to be made of leather, with gold lettering in a Germanic font.
Possibly real gold,
Sammy thought, because the letters seemed to glow with some kind of inner light. He read aloud: ââ
The Golem
, by Gustav Meyrink.ââ
âA golem,â Chaim continued, âmade of clay, animated by the name of God, to stand as protector of the Jews when death threatened them all.â
âA story, boys.â Mr. Greenburg said. âAs someone who works with clay, I canât begin tell you how hard it is to make something that big.â
âThe Chinese did, Mr. Greenburg,â Skink said. âYou know, the terra-cotta army? Weâve been studying that in art class.â
Sammy barely heard them. Not knowing why, heâd reached out for the book, but Chaim pulled it back protectively.
âSounds like a good story,â Sammy said, somewhat breathlessly. The golden letters still glowed.
âIt
is
a good story, Samson,â Chaim told him. âBut like all good stories, the ending will surprise you.â He returned the book to its place on the shelf.
Sammy memorized where Chaim put the golem book. A thought had formed in his head the moment the rabbi had first mentioned the golem. No, even earlierâwhen the letters on the bookâs cover had begun to glow. No matter how he tried to ignore it, the thought kept popping up:
What if itâs true?
Chaim turned back to them, hands empty once more. âThat is enough about the golem. His story is best unsaid and unread. I apologize for bringing it up.â He made a funny sound, like a short, sharp laugh of a single syllable. âHah! And so why, Chaim, did you mention it at all?â he addressed himself. âBecause . . .â he answered his own question, âbecause we were talking about bullies.â Glancing at his watch, he added, âIn fact, thatâs enough until our next meeting.â
âWhich is . . .?â Mr. Greenburg asked.
âThursday,â Chaim said. âSammy has a lot of work to do if he is to be ready for his bar mitzvah by the spring.â
And with that Chaim began whisking them out of the classroom, out of the temple, shooing them on with waving arms and clucking tongue as if they were a flock of recalcitrant chickens.
Recalcitrant
, thought Sammy.
A good word.
He started listing synonyms for recalcitrant in his head as if they could keep the other thoughtâthe golem thoughtâout of it.
Ornery. Uncontrollable. Defiant. Rebellious.
But it was no use.
I need that book!
The glowing gold letters called to him. Turning, he ran back to the small classroom.
I need that book!
Past the
bimah
, past long benches with their book rests, almost to the door, it was all Sammy could