“I assume it’s in the state museum or something.”
“Unfortunately not. The Bodleian has it.”
Jacob’s heart kicked. “The Bodleian Library.”
“Yes.”
“In Oxford.”
“Unless there’s another I don’t know about. Is something wrong, Jacob Lev?”
“... no. No.”
They resumed bushwhacking in silence. Jacob was wondering whether to share with the guard that Oxford was Reggie Heap’s alma mater — simultaneously wondering whether there was any significance to that fact — when Peter spoke.
“The Nazis leveled many of the cities they came through. The Communists, too. But they left Prague intact. Do you know why?”
“Hitler wanted to convert the ghetto to a museum of a dead culture. The Communists didn’t have the money for demolition.”
“That’s what historians say. There’s another reason, though. They were afraid to overturn the earth. Even men such as they, evil men, understood that things are buried here that one should not disturb.”
“Mm.”
“You don’t believe me,” Peter said. “It’s all right. Ya’ir is the same way.”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking me to believe.”
Peter didn’t reply.
Jacob said, “How’d the letter end up in England?”
“A later chief rabbi sent it away with the manuscripts for safekeeping. It was a prophetic decision; soon afterward, there was a pogrom, and everything in the shul not nailed down was dragged out into the street and burned.” Sidling past a crippled lectern. “This rabbi, Dovid Oppenheimer, was a German, a great lover of books. Accepting the position in Prague meant leaving behind a huge library in Hanover in the care of his father-in-law. After both men had passed, the entire collection, including the Maharal’s letter, was bundled together. It changed hands several times before the Bodleian bought it.”
“Kind of a shame it’s so far from home.”
“Frankly, it’s better this way, Jacob Lev. They are precious pieces of history. We couldn’t care for them properly. The insurance alone would eat up our annual budget ten times over. Though I will admit that it would be nice to see them.”
“Cheap flight to Gatwick. Thirty pounds. I just booked it.”
“Yes, well, I’ve never left Prague.”
“Really?”
“When I was a boy, travel was restricted, and then I took over at the shul.”
“They don’t give you a day off once in a while? I’m sure Ya’ir can hold down the fort.”
Peter swiveled aside a freestanding mirror, de-silvered to flat pewter. “Here we are.”
Along the length of the eastern wall ran a three-foot-wide path cleared of detritus, providing access to the exterior door, its arched shape outlined in sunlight, an iron bar holding it firmly in place.
“May I?”
Peter hesitated. “If you must.”
Jacob worked to pry free the bar, which was heavy and rusty to boot. The door swung in with an ovine croak. Light dazzled him; instantly he felt tugged toward the cool evening air. He braced his hands on the doorframe and thrust his head out.
“Careful, please,” Peter said.
Jacob peered down.
Below, the rungs.
The cobbled area.
The drain.
Foot traffic coursed along Pařížská Street, backlit by a pinkening sky, shoppers and lovers and sunburnt vacationers oblivious to the eye observing them from above. It put Jacob in mind of that morning, standing with Jan at the scene, the man on the cell phone rushing along, taking no notice of them.
Here, it’s like invisible.
He swooned, drunk on fresh air.
“Detective,” Peter said. “Careful.”
“How high’s the drop?”
“Thirty-nine feet.”
“And there’s no way to open the door from the outside.”
“None. That’s enough, now, step back.”
But Jacob craned further, gulping sweet air, so wonderful, inviting him to dive into it...
He wouldn’t fall.
He would float.
He let go.
With shocking strength, Peter grabbed him by his shirt and hauled him back inside, slamming him against the wall, pinning him there. The guard said, “Don’t move, Jacob, please,” and released him, hurrying to slam and bolt the door.
Jacob wasn’t moving. He had slumped docilely and he remained that way as the drop in brightness caused his eyes to ache. With the door shut, the urge to hurl himself out had begun to dwindle, and in its stead came the horror, humiliation, and confusion of realizing how close he had been to obeying it. He shuddered violently, chewing the edge of a thumbnail, while in his mind he saw the cobblestones rising up to meet him.
Peter crouched down in front of him. “What happened.”
What do you think, motherfucker? I’m going off the deep end.
Jacob shook his head.
“Jacob. You must please tell me what you were thinking.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what came over me. I just — I don’t know.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t.” He commanded his body to stop shaking. “I’m fine. I mean, obviously, I’m — tired, and I was just standing there, and...”
“And...”
“And nothing. I slipped, okay? My hands — they’re sweaty. I’m all right now, thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you. I really don’t know what came over me.”
Peter smiled sadly. “It’s not your fault. This place affects people in unpredictable ways. Now we know how it affects you.”
Jacob bit off another spasm. He would not allow this to happen to him. He waved off Peter’s offer of help, struggling to his feet, resting against a splintery beam.
“I trust you’ve seen what you wanted to see,” Peter said.
“Unless you’re going to show me where you keep the golem.”
The smile he received was a dry reflection of his own.
Peter said, “Prepare for disappointment.”
They followed the cleared path around the corner to the end, coming up against a hulking rectangular shape standing inert in shadow.
Ten feet tall, broad as two normal men, it slumbered beneath a moldering shroud held tight by ropes — a coffin for a giant.
Peter set down the lantern and began untying the ropes. One by one they fell to the ground, until he whipped the shroud away and the tension whooshed out of Jacob’s chest, and he realized he’d been holding his breath, brain coiled up in expectation of a monster crashing forth with crushing hands.
He began to laugh.
“Not what you were expecting.”
“Not really, no.”
Rudely built, unvarnished, the cabinet squatted on warped legs — a flea market leftover. One door was missing; inside were deep shelves, riddled with scores of peculiar, quarter-inch holes. The back and sides were similarly perforated.
For the most part, the cabinet appeared empty. Drawing closer in the low light, however, Jacob saw a number of pottery shards scattered on the center shelf — wafer-thin husks of clay. It was then that he understood what he was looking at: a drying rack, an old-fashioned version of the one his mother had kept in the garage. Before he could ask what such a thing would be doing in the attic of a synagogue, Peter pointed to one of the shards and said, “There.”
Jacob looked at him. “What.”
Peter’s answer was to lightly pluck one of the shards and place it in Jacob’s palm. It felt insubstantial; it grew translucent as Jacob held it up to the lantern.
The guard said, “I told you to prepare for disappointment.”
Jacob stared at the shard, uncomprehending.
“You may find this of greater interest,” Peter said.
The guard dragged over a crate to stand on, reaching elbow-deep into the topmost shelf, withdrawing an object the size of a pomegranate, wrapped in black woolen cloth and fastened with twine. He traded it to Jacob for the clay shard.