The Golem of Hollywood

Chapter fifty-two

An airless basement room with mismatched bookshelves and a warping plywood Ark, the synagogue where Sam Lev prayed daily seemed anemic compared to the Alt-Neu’s stony grandeur. A quorum and a half of codgers — Sam not among them — snoozed in metal folding chairs, waiting for the dawn service to begin. No one paid Jacob any attention until a voice behind him boomed, “My eyes deceive me.”

Abe Teitelbaum had gotten his start as a deli counterman, heaving untrimmed briskets and thirty-pound crates of lox. Half a century later, he retained the physique of a circus strongman, chesty, thickset, low to the ground. Grinding the bones in Jacob’s proffered hand, he said, “Bienvenido, stranger, to the land of the alter cockers.”

“Great to see you.”

Abe peered closer. “You’re wearing lipstick now?” His chuck on the shoulder caused Jacob’s rib cage to vibrate like a tuning fork. “Tell the truth: some girl hit you.”

“They always do,” Jacob said. “Thanks again for the help.”

“What help? I helped?”

Jacob reminded him about the country club.

“Oh, that. That was my pleasure. Love to make em squirm. Only reason I keep my dues current.”

“Do you know a member named Eddie Stein?”

“Nope.”

“You should meet him,” Jacob said. “You’d get along.”

“I don’t need any more friends. Fact, I’d prefer fewer.” Abe thumbed at the white-haired men, lowered his voice. “That’s why I hang out here. They’re all gonna kick it soon. Very convenient.” He grinned. “Speaking of people I like, how’s your dad? I missed him yesterday.”

Jacob frowned. “He wasn’t here?”

“Not for davening and not later when we were supposed to learn together. Whatever, I’m not mad. Even a lamed-vavnik gets a sniffle every once in a while. A call would’ve been nice, though.”

Jacob speed-dialed Sam. “Abba. It’s me. Are you there? Can you pick up? Hello? Pick up the phone, Abba.”

Abe looked distressed. “Nothing’s wrong, I hope.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Jacob said, dialing Nigel instead.

“I should’ve followed up,” Abe said.

“Don’t worry about it, really.”

“You want, I can go over there.”

Jacob held up a finger. “Hey, Nigel, listen, sorry to call so early, but is everything all right with my dad? I’m at shul and—”

Abe poked him in the arm and pointed: Sam had walked in.

“Never mind,” Jacob said. “Disregard this message. Thanks.”

Abe placed his hand lightly on Sam’s bony shoulder. “The Messiah arrives. The kid and I were on the verge of bringing in the bloodhounds.”

Sam stared at Jacob. “You’re here?”

“That’s the way you greet your son?” Abe said.

“I got back last night,” Jacob said.

“Back?” Abe said.

“From Prague,” Jacob said.

“Prague?” Abe asked. “What’s going on? Why does nobody tell me nothing?”

Questions would have to wait: the retired-dentist-turned-gabbai banged the dais three times, the retired-lawyer-turned-cantor chanted the opening blessings, and Sam turned aside to put on his tefillin.

Blessed are You, Our God, King of the Universe, Who has given my heart the understanding to discern between day and night...

Jacob found his own seat and slung down his backpack. In it he’d packed a camera, junk food, sunglasses, flashlight; flex-cuffs and a Taser; his Glock, full mag plus one extra. To top it all off, the blue velvet bag, fished from his sweater drawer, containing his own tefillin.

How many years had it been? At least a dozen. He was afraid he’d forgotten how to put them on, but muscle memory guided him: he placed a black box containing the sacred writings on his upper arm, binding it there with black leather straps, mumbling the blessings as he went. He set a second black box at his hairline, centering it between his eyes, and finished by wrapping the arm-strap around his palm and fingers in the shape of one of the Divine names.

He glanced at his father and a chill came over him: Sam had settled into his seat, stock-still, in meditative silence, a life-sized version of the clay model. Then the cantor recited the kaddish, and Sam stood up, and the illusion dissolved.

Prayers proceeded routinely: hymns of praise; declarations of faith; pleas for health, prosperity, and peace. During the recitation of the Shema, Jacob texted Mallick.

hear o israel the lord is our god the lord is one

After the song of the angels, the gabbai came around, rattling a tin charity box. Jacob fished out the hundred-dollar bill Sam had given him, folded it several times to conceal the denomination, and stuffed it into the slot.

During the final psalm, Abe excused himself, saying something about a breakfast meeting. Within a few minutes, the rest of the men had departed, leaving father and son alone.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” Sam said.

“Didn’t realize I had to.”

“Of course not.” Sam smiled wearily. “You’re back safely. That’s what counts.”

“What I said over the phone,” Jacob said. “I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t give it a thought. You needed to speak your mind.”

“That’s the problem. My mind is a bad place right now.”

A beat. Sam reached over and clasped Jacob’s hand. Squeezed once and let him go.

“Abe said you missed learning with him. You okay?”

Sam shrugged. “Everyone deserves a day off.”

Jacob had his doubts, but decided not to press. “I have something I want you to see,” he said, unfolding his transcription of the Prague letter and his makeshift translation, placing them side by side on the table.

Sam picked up the Hebrew text and held it close. His failing eyes shuttled busily behind his sunglasses. “It’s accurate?”

“I was going fast. But I think so.”

Sam felt for the translation and compared the documents.

“I found a website with the Loew family tree,” Jacob said. “There were several daughters and one son named Bezalel, but no Isaac. I’m guessing Isaac was Isaac Katz, who apparently was married to two of the Maharal’s daughters.”

Silence.

Jacob said, “‘Joy and gladness’ refers to a wedding, obviously.” He leaned over to read. “‘I say to you now, what man is there that has married a woman but not yet taken her? Let him go and return to his wife. But let your heart not grow weak; do not fear, do not tremble.’ That’s the priest’s speech before the Jewish army goes to war.”

Sam sat motionless.

“This business about clay and pottery, I found the source in Isaiah, but it doesn’t make much sense to me. The last line, about disgrace, I couldn’t find anywhere.” Jacob paused. “Bottom line, Abba, I’m lost.”

Sam adjusted his glasses, his chest cycling shallowly.

“On the contrary,” he said. “I think you did fine.”

He put the pages down. “The case is going well?”

“Pretty well. Can we talk about this for a minute, though?”

“I really have nothing to contribute,” Sam said.

He picked up his tefillin bag and started for the exit. “Focus on your work.”

“Wait a second.”

“Don’t get distracted,” Sam said, and disappeared around the corner.

“Abba.” Jacob grabbed the letters and his backpack and followed his father out to the pavement. Nigel had the Taurus curbside, the motor running. He got out to help Sam in.

“Abba. Hang on.”

“I’m tired, Jacob. I had a hard night.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I need to go home. Let me think it over.” Sam climbed into the passenger seat. “I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”

Nigel shut Sam’s door, ran around to the driver’s side.

“Where are you going?” Jacob said to him. “Hey. Man. Seriously. Come on. Hey.”

The Taurus pulled away from the curb, headed north on Robertson.

Half a block on, though, brake lights flared and Nigel jumped out and hustled back up the sidewalk, waving something.

“He wants you to have this,” he said, handing Jacob another hundred-dollar bill.