The Golem of Paris by Jonathan Kellerman, Jesse Kellerman

Frayda says.
    “You bet.”
    Cindy is waiting for her on the corner of Nostrand and Avenue D, the knapsack slumped at her feet.
    Barbara blows out an anxious breath. “Thanks.”
    “Yeah, baby, sure. So?” Cindy bites off a cuticle. “How did it go? Is it true love?”
    “You bet,” Barbara says.
    •   •   •
    T HE SECOND CLASS MEETS indoors at 11 Minetta, in Sri Sri Jivanmukta Swami’s second-floor studio apartment. Again the group sits in a circle on the floor, which is really the only option, because Sri Sri doesn’t own any furniture.
    There’s clay, at least—a little ball, the diameter of a nickel.
    “All creation begins from a single point,” he says.
    They spend the hour forming tiny bowls by hand.
    “You’re really good at this,” Frayda says.
    Barbara shrugs.
    Sri Sri presses his palms together. “The purity of the beginner.”
    Each week he allots a bit more raw material, until, by week eight, they are making vases using hand-turned wheels. Sri Sri shuttles back and forth, dispensing advice and mopping up gray water with a rag.
    “Next week,” he says, “we return to the garden to seek inspiration.”
    “And to protect your floors,” Frayda mutters.
    •   •   •
    B ARBARA ’ S PARENTS ARE HAPPY to see her taking her studies so seriously.
    Cindy, on the other hand, is starting to get restless.
    “I’m happy to keep covering for you, baby, but don’t I deserve to meet him?”
    “It’s tricky,” Barbara says.
    “What, he’s a secret agent?”
    “Something like that.”
    The following Wednesday it’s drizzling. Barbara and Frayda arrive at the park to find it deserted. On the door to number eleven Minetta hangs a sodden note, ink running.
    CL ASS CANCELED
    They head to a café.
    Frayda says, “I don’t understand why he doesn’t just put down a drop cloth.”
    “He’s wearing it,” Barbara says. She picks up her turkey sandwich but hesitates. Frayda isn’t eating or drinking, and that makes her feel weird—observed. “You’re sure you don’t want anything? A cup of coffee?”
    “No, thanks.”
    Barbara takes a bite, chews, swallows. Frayda has missed a couple of pottery classes due to a spate of Jewish holidays.
    “You keep kosher,” Barbara says.
    Frayda nods.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “That I keep kosher?”
    Barbara laughs. “I don’t want to be rude,” she says, putting the sandwich down.
    “Please,” Frayda says. “Enjoy.”
    “You don’t mind?”
    “Why would I mind?”
    “I don’t know,” Barbara says.
    Frayda gestures to the carnival that is Greenwich Village. “A turkey sandwich,” she says, “is the least of my concerns.”
    They talk about their families, about school. Frayda studies accounting at Hunter. She’s nineteen, two years older than Barbara, but also a junior. With a detached air, she mentions that she’s engaged.
    “Cool,” Barbara says, although she’s amazed. “When’s the happy day?”
    “We don’t know yet. We’re not formally engaged. More like . . .
betrothed
.”
    “That sounds fancy.”
    “It’s not. We’ve known each other since we were five. Our families are friends.”
    Her accepting manner disquiets Barbara. “What’s his name?”
    “Yonatan. You could meet him sometime. You could come for Shabbos dinner.”
    “Sounds like fun,” Barbara says, hoping she sounds more sincere than she feels.
    “It really is,” Frayda says. “You could come this Friday, if you wanted.”
    “Maybe.” She promised Cindy they’d go to a movie. “I have to check.”
    “Sure.”
    There’s a silence. Then Frayda peers at her suddenly.
    “Do you have a Hebrew name?” she asks.
    She does, but it’s purely an abstraction. Talk of God enrages her father. He is clear: God perished in the camps. It is with barely contained disgust that he watches his wife light the
yahrzeit
candle for her brother. They eat pork, they drive on Saturdays, they socialize with other Czechs, Jewish or Christian, it doesn’t