What brings you here?” The men embraced, a bit formally. Michael had grown used to his own uncovered head, the lack of fringe beneath his vest; but he still felt naked in the man’s presence. Then he caught sight of the woman in the door’s shadow.
“I’d like you to meet a new friend,” said the Rabbi. “Michael, this is Chava. She’s newly arrived in New York.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” the woman said. She was tall, taller than him by an inch or two. For a moment she seemed a dark and looming statue; but then she moved forward into the room, and was merely a woman in a plain shirtwaist, holding a cardboard box.
Michael realized he was staring; he caught himself. “Likewise, of course! How long have you been here?”
“Only a month.” She gave a small embarrassed smile, as if apologizing for her recent arrival.
“Chava’s husband died on the voyage,” his uncle said. “She has no family in America. I’ve become her social worker, after a fashion.”
Michael’s face fell. “My God, how terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” It was a whisper.
There was a moment of silence, awkward with the weight of her revealed widowhood. Then the woman seemed to notice the box in her hands. “I made these,” she said, a bit abruptly. “They were meant for your uncle, but I made too many. He suggested I bring them to you, and you could give them to the men who live here.” She held out the box to Michael.
He opened it, unleashing a heavenly scent of butter and spices. The box was full of pastries, all different kinds: butter-horns, almond macaroons, spice cookies, sweet buns, gingersnaps. “You made all of these?” he said, incredulous. “Are you a baker?”
The woman hesitated, but then smiled. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Well, the men will certainly appreciate these. We’ll make sure everyone gets a piece.” He closed the box, fighting temptation. The almond macaroons in particular were making his mouth water; they’d been his favorite since childhood. “Thank you, Chava. This will be a great treat for them. I’ll take them straight to the kitchen.”
“You should try a macaroon,” she said.
He smiled. “I will. They’re my favorite, actually.”
“I—” She seemed to catch hold of herself, then said, “I’m glad.”
“Chava,” the Rabbi said, “perhaps you might wait for me in the parlor.”
The woman nodded. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said to Michael.
“And you as well,” he replied. “And thank you, truly. On behalf of all the men.”
She smiled, and withdrew into the hallway. For such a tall woman, she moved quite silently.
“My God, what a tragedy for her!” Michael said when she was out of earshot. “I’m surprised she stayed in New York, instead of going back home.”
“There was little there for her,” said his uncle. “In a way, she had no choice.”
Michael frowned. “She isn’t living with you, is she?”
“No, no,” his uncle said quickly. “She’s staying with a former congregant, for now. An old widow. But I must find her a more permanent living situation, and a job as well.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult. She seems capable, if quiet.”
“Yes, she’s very capable. But at the same time she’s almost painfully innocent. It makes me afraid for her. She’ll need to learn how to protect herself, to live in this city.”
“At least she’ll have you to look out for her.”
His uncle smiled grimly. “Yes. For now.”
An idea had been forming in Michael’s mind; finally he gave it his attention. “You say you’re looking for a job for her?”
“Yes. Not a sweatshop, if I can help it.”
“Are you still in touch with Moe Radzin?”
“We’re cordial enough to say hello on the street, I suppose.” He frowned. “You think there might be a job for Chava at Radzin’s?”
“I was just there yesterday. The place was in chaos, and Moe was having fits. One of his assistants ran off to God knows where, and another is leaving to take care of her sister.” He smiled and pointed at the box. “If those taste as good as they look, then the bakery could use her. You should go talk to him.”
“Yes,” the Rabbi said slowly. “It’s a possibility. But Moe Radzin …”
“I know. He’s just as sour and unhappy as ever. But he’s fair, at least, and generous when he wants to be. The House gets all our bread from him, at discount. And his employees seem to respect him. Well, except for Thea.”
The Rabbi snorted. Thea Radzin was a formidable complainer, the sort of woman who began conversations with a list of her ailments. Among her husband’s female employees she worked as a matchmaker in reverse, listing their defects to any man who showed an interest.
Michael pressed on, feeling obscurely that if he could help his uncle, some of his guilt would be unburdened. “There are worse bosses than Moe Radzin. And perhaps he’ll feel some obligation to treat Chava well, if he knows you’re watching out for her.”
“Perhaps. I’ll speak to him. Thank you, Michael.” He squeezed his nephew’s shoulder; and Michael, with a burst of concern, saw that his uncle had never looked so worn and tired, not even when dealing with the stresses of a congregation. He had always worked himself far too hard. And now, instead of resting, he’d taken the welfare of a young widow upon himself. Michael wanted to suggest that there were any number of women’s groups that could look after her. But the Jewish women’s charities, he knew, were even more strapped than the men’s.
He said good-bye to his uncle and sat back at his desk. Even with his misgivings about his uncle’s health, the brief glimpse of the woman had intrigued him. She’d seemed quiet and shy, but the way she’d looked at him had been unnerving. She’d stared directly into his eyes, unblinking, a deep and candid gaze. He understood what his uncle meant about her needing to protect herself, but at the same time Michael felt it was he, not she, who had been laid bare.
The Sheltering House’s parlor was surprisingly spacious, running the length of the dim front hall. The Golem stood in the corner next to a dilapidated wing chair. It was now midmorning, and many of the men in the dormitories had left already, to look for work or a place to pray. But close to sixty remained, and the weight of their worrying minds pressed down on the Golem from above. It reminded her powerfully of her first night, on the Baltika, how the passengers’ fears and desires had been amplified by the strange surroundings. These were the same wild hopes, the same apprehensions. It hadn’t been as bad in Michael’s office; she’d been too focused on the challenge of speaking to a stranger, and not giving herself away.
She was beginning to fidget. How much longer would the Rabbi be? Against
