A haunting voice, a forgotten legacy, and a golem waiting to wake.
Welcome to ADAM, a bi-weekly serialized historical fantasy rooted in Jewish mysticism and folklore. Each installment reveals a new chapter in the unfolding tales of three Jewish women living during three different moments of history. This chapter continues Gitele’s story and reveals the secret to the golem’s creation. If you’re just joining us, welcome! You can catch up anytime using the full Chapter List. If you’re back, I’m so glad to have you here! You can start reading below.
If you’re curious about the inspiration behind ADAM, this article shares how the story came to be and why I’m telling it one chapter at a time. Thank you so much for reading and being part of this journey — it means the world to me.
I’d love to know what you think so far. If you have thoughts, questions, or favorite moments, drop a comment below — I welcome the conversation and am so glad to have you with me.
Chapter List
Chapter One: The Maharal’s Daughter
Chapter Two: The Witch of Döbling
Chapter Three: The ADAM Project
Chapter Four: The Sacred Shidduch
Chapter Five: The Fifth Aliyah
Chapter Six: Interface
Chapter Seven: The Golem of Prague
Chapter Eight: Under the Olive Tree
Chapter Nine: That Night OR The Incident
Chapter Ten: Unseen
Chapter Four: The Sacred Shidduch
16th Century Prague
A warmth spreading slowly across Gitele’s face gently roused her from sleep. Moaning, she rolled her head to the side, feeling the coarse fabric of her pillow beneath her cheek. Her body ached slightly, as though she was recovering from a bout of illness, and as consciousness creeped back in, she wondered if she had run a fever during the night. That would explain the dampness beading across her brow and the clammy feeling of her hair against her skin.
Then she remembered.
With a start, Gitele sat up, blinking against the morning sunlight that poured through the window and across her bed. “Ah, you’re awake!” A voice said at her back, and she turned to see her sister Tilla gazing at her from the washbasin in the corner of the room. “It’s about time, too. Do you know what the hour is?”
“No,” Gitele murmured, her voice hoarse, her mouth dry. Swallowing, she reached for the pitcher of water on the table next to her bed and poured a drink to quench her thirst.
“It’s nearly half past nine,” Tilla replied. “Are you ill?”
“Perhaps,” Gitele confessed as she pushed back the wool blanket and swung her legs over the edge of her bed. Her night dress clung to her body unpleasantly.
“Mother told us not to disturb you,” Tilla confessed with a guilty smile as she joined her sister on the straw mattress. “But if you’re well enough now, it is almost time for the procession!” Gitele turned a puzzled gaze to her sister before remembering that it was the first day of Sukkot, the autumn harvest festival. At that moment, her father was most likely leading services in the synagogue to welcome the holiday, which was marked by the Procession of the Four Species. While only the men in town could circle the inner sanctuary, once morning prayers were over, they would file out the door and march through the streets, waving the citrus fruit known as the etrog, the palm frond known as the lulav, and the myrtle and willow branches. This annual parade was popular amongst the children of the Jewish quarter. They trailed behind the men, singing and dancing and visiting the many sukkot constructed throughout the quarter. Meals would be eaten and festivities would occur in these sukkot. Gitele’s own family always built their sukkah in the small courtyard outside their home. If the weather was fair, Gitele and her sisters were permitted to sleep under the branches, staring up through the thatched roof at a canvas of stars in the night sky.
The door to the room slowly opened and Rachel and Leah, Gitele’s other sisters, peered inside. “Is she awake now?” Rachel asked.
“Yes,” Tilla nodded.
“Did you hear the news then, Gitele?” Leah asked eagerly from the doorway. “Mama has given us permission to see the procession. You must come as well!”
Gitele smiled gently, but memories of the previous night were forcing their way into her mind, and she wanted nothing more than to ponder them in silence. “Then let me rise and dress in peace,” she said to her sisters, shooing them from the room.
Once alone, she stood at the washstand and splashed cold water on her face. The droplets washed away the last of her sleep, and when she closed her eyes, the events of the previous evening sharpened in her memory. She remembered her father’s mysterious intonations, his hands hovering over the still clay figure lying prone on his worktable while his voice rose and fell in a hypnotic song. She remembered her confusion and the feeling of something spreading throughout her chest like a swarm of bees trying hard to break free. It was a feeling she couldn’t contain, a pulsing that made her shake and tremble. She remembered looking fearfully at her mother and noticing how she also trembled, her mouth open slightly, caught in the throes of a silent fit. But then her mother’s eyes met hers, and she reached for Gitele’s hand, and when they touched, a blinding white light encompassed all her senses. The feeling in her chest suddenly burst out of her own open mouth in a cry that ripped through her. It was a summoning, a call in a language that had no words but was pure energy and guttural sound, sending her to her knees. And when the light finally began to clear from her vision, she was doubled over, breathless and spent. And when she looked up, the figure on the table moved.
Gitele stumbled backward at the onslaught of memory. She clutched her head in her hands, panting, wondering if what she had experienced had been real or some sort of hallucination? When the door to her room creaked open, she glanced up, expecting to see her sisters, ready to send them away again. To her relief, her mother filled the doorway instead. Gitele gasped and ran into her mother’s waiting arms, relishing the hands that soothed back her hair and the lips that kissed the crown of her head.
“What happened last night, Mama?” she choked out when she was finally able to speak. “What happened to me?”
Perel said nothing at first. She guided Gitele back to her bed with a steady hand, the soft rustle of the blankets the only sound between them as they sat side by side. Dust motes floated in the sunlight that bathed the room in a soft glow, and Gitele let herself relax against her mother’s soft body, inhaling the lavender scent of her perfumed skin.
“I always wondered,” Perel began, her voice barely above a whisper, “if any of my children would inherit the same powers I possess.” She took her daughter’s hand into her own, her thumb tracing small circles over Gitele’s palm. “It seems, my love, that question has finally been answered.”
Gitele’s breath caught in her throat. “Powers?” she whispered. The word felt strange on her tongue, foreign and somehow wrong. Perel gazed into her daughter’s eyes, and for a fleeting moment, Gitele felt a spark of excitement, as though she were on the cusp of learning something ancient and sacred. “What happened last night wasn’t a dream, Gitele,” Perel said softly. “It was your awakening.”
Awakening. The word hung in the air between them. Gitele’s brow furrowed as she considered the word. Awakening. What did that mean?
“I was slightly older than you are when I realized that I could do things others couldn’t,” Perel continued in a serious tone. “It began with dreams.” She paused, eyes distant, as though she were looking through the walls of the room and into the past itself. “In those dreams, I was surrounded by a darkness so thick and endless, it pressed against me, breathed around me. I felt trapped inside it, as though I was in the belly of a living beast. Try as I might, I couldn’t break free and find the light. It was like I had no body; I was part of the darkness, yet I was conscious as well, searching to find figure and form. It was just as you described last night. I was terrified, Gitele.”
“Yes!” Gitele cried, strangely comforted to hear her mother’s experience mirrored her own. Perel was one of the strongest women she knew, a balabusta, capable and commanding, whether managing the affairs of their home or bartering with the merchants in town. Yet she was soft-spoken and kind and, in Gitele’s opinion, afraid of nothing. If her mother had overcome her fear, so could she.
“It wasn’t until years later that I realized what those dreams meant,” Perel continued. “Some might call it a curse, others a gift. But what you and I share is something so powerful, so sacred, we must never speak about it outside these walls.”
Perel’s expression was severe, and her hand tightened around Gitele’s. Gitele swallowed and whispered, “Yes, Mama.” Perel studied her daughter’s face for a long time before smiling gently. “Very good,” she nodded, then continued, “I noticed when you were younger how your dreams plagued your sleep. I counted the nights you awoke crying. As I rocked you and comforted you, I prayed they were just the stuff of childhood. When they subsided, I was hopeful that they wouldn’t return.
“As for me, I grew up learning to live with the trepidation that accompanied closing my eyes at night. I didn’t always dream. There were many years that I slept peacefully and almost forgot about them. It wasn’t until I met your father that the truth surrounding my dreams was finally discovered.”
“How?” Gitele asked, intrigued by her mother’s story.
“As you know, your father and I had an arranged marriage, a shidduch. Most shidduchim are made by the bride’s parents, and since your father was a scholar of Torah who possessed great ambition, he was widely considered a catch. Many of the men in town hoped to secure him for their own daughters. But while your father was on the path to becoming a revered rabbi, his future wasn’t assured, and he was particular about who he wanted for his life partner.”
Here, Perel paused, her smile growing bigger. “He later told me he turned down many offers before we met. He can be stubborn, as you know, and there were rumors that he would never be satisfied with any of the girls in town. For my part, I wasn’t looking for a husband. I had . . . interests . . . of my own. This was a source of conflict between your grandparents and me, may their memory be a blessing. They said I had my head in the clouds. I entertained too many lofty ideas for a young woman. I was stubborn in my own way. When your father and I met, however, that all changed. Unlike the other boys I had known, I was drawn to your father. It was a pull I couldn’t escape. After our initial meeting, we spent many chaperoned moments together, and that attraction became stronger and deeper. Although I didn’t want to admit it, I knew we were meant to be together.”
“How did you know?” Gitele interrupted, intrigued.
Perel fell quiet for a moment as she pondered her daughter’s question. Then, she put her arm around Gitele and pulled her closer. “It’s hard to explain,” she mused, “but your father awakened something dormant in me, something long asleep in my soul, something I hadn’t even known was there. I was still a young girl at the time, and I’d only ever given a fleeting thought to my future as a wife. When I did entertain the notion, I imagined my husband would be a man who believed in something greater than himself, a man who wasn’t searching for power for power’s sake. I found that in your father. He included me in his conversations about Torah and Talmud, in his musings, in his theories and search for meaning. He welcomed my interpretations of his writings and my own spiritual contemplations. He treated me as an equal. We spent hours together with our heads bent over texts that had, until that moment, been forbidden to me. Our conversations were filled with complex ideas and philosophy. That was how our bond grew to the point of love.”
Perel paused once more, absently stroking Gitele’s head, lost in thought, before resuming.
“My parents were, of course, pleased when we declared our intentions for each other. The shidduch was arranged. At the time, my parents were wealthy, respected members of our community. The announcement of our intended nuptials was celebrated far and wide. However, your father was not yet twenty years of age, and he was determined to finish his education and find a respectable position before marriage. We therefore postponed our wedding so he could immerse himself in the study of Torah at the Maharshal yeshiva in Poland. Little did we know that the future we had planned wouldn’t materialize.”
“But Mama,” Gitele interjected, confused. “What do you mean? You and Papa are married.”
“We are,” Perel nodded, “but it took many years before we were able to wed.”
“What happened?” Gitele asked, watching as her mother’s expression darkened. Her lips pursed into a fine line, and she began biting the inside of her cheek, a gesture she reserved for when she was deep in thought. When she spoke again, bitterness tinged her words. “While your father was in Poland, there was a . . . disturbance . . . in town.”
“A disturbance?”
“There had been others in the past, but not for a long time. Angry mobs came through the streets where we lived, torching our homes and ransacking our businesses. The flames quickly spread throughout the town. Rocks were hurled through windows, stalls were overturned. Worst of all, the synagogue was defaced.”
“But why?” Gitele asked as fragments of a conversation she’d had with her father came back to her.
“Because, my love, we are Jews.”
Gitele sat back, stunned by her mother’s candor, by the stinging words. They echoed in Gitele’s ears, dislodging bits of memory that fell into place until, all at once, Gitele remembered. She remembered the afternoon she’d spent with her father on the riverbank. She remembered sitting beside him, braiding a crown of flowers while he spoke to her. His voice came back, his solemn tone as he told her about the night he was born, and she recalled the dark turn his story took. He had described how a man came through Posen carrying the body of a dead child, hoping to incite a riot by blaming the Jewish people for the child’s death. He had mentioned the term ‘pogrom.’ He had explained that the Jews were accused of using Christian blood for their rituals and religious practices. As a child, she had dismissed the notion as preposterous, too ridiculous to be real, a cautionary tale. But now she recognized the truth in her mother’s words, saw it reflected on her mother’s face, and she felt a cold chill run down her spine and raise the hair on her arms.
And all because they were Jewish.
“We lost everything we owned,” Perel continued somberly. “The Emperor, fearing more violence, ordered the Jews of Prague to leave the city. We had little left to take with us and nowhere to go. We attempted to start a new life in the countryside, but we lived as paupers. Then, news reached us that the city was suffering financially. When the Emperor realized the error of his ways, he allowed us to return, but we had nothing to our name. Your grandparents were older by that time and unable to work. We struggled to put food on our table. Your grandfather, once revered in the Jewish community, had lost his status as well as his wealth. With no money to pay my dowry, your grandfather had no choice but to dissolve the shidduch.”
“Noo,” Gitele sighed, letting out the breath she had been holding. “What happened then, Mama?”
“I was heartbroken,” Perel said softly. “When your grandfather broke the news to your father, I stood beside him, sobbing. I knew your grandfather wasn’t going to hold your father to a contract he could no longer fulfill, but I couldn’t imagine my life without him. That’s when your father gently took my hands in his. ‘The decision is no longer mine to make, but my heart’s,’ he told my father, ‘And my heart chooses Perel. I care only for her, and I believe she feels the same way about me.’ I stared at him, open-mouthed. Invisible ties seemed to form in the air around our clasped hands, binding me to him. I couldn’t have pulled away if I tried. He turned to your grandfather and said, ‘While I have nothing to offer her now, I believe that in time I will. I am willing to wait. Perel and I will be wed one day. We must leave it to God to determine when. But I am hers and she is mine.’”
“Papa said this?” Gitele asked, astonished. She had never heard him recite such sentiments. “Oh yes,” Perel nodded, laughing gently. “His words renewed me with a sense of hope. While your father continued his studies, I did what I could to bring food to my family’s table. I resolved to put my homemaking skills to use and began selling baked goods in the market in town. I set up a stall and ventured out every morning with fresh bread, buchty, and kolach fresh from our oven. I bartered with many customers who once knew me as the daughter of a wealthy rabbi, now a destitute young woman with no prospects. Some purchased my goods out of charity, but soon, my pastries and desserts were in high demand. I began to have a reputation as one of the best bakers in town.”
Gitele believed this. She thought fondly of the yeast buns and round wheels filled with sweet jams or poppyseed that her mother always served on special occasions, and the braided loaves of challah she baked every Friday for Shabbat. She had no idea her mother, who often strode through town bartering with the vendors, her change purse clinking at her waist, had once been one of them. As she stared at her mother, she began to see her with new eyes, as a woman who had lived a life outside the domestic affairs of the home.
“While we didn’t regain the wealth we once had, I made enough to keep food on our table and fire in our hearth,” Perel continued. “We wouldn’t starve.
“Then one day, a soldier rode through the square. He sat astride a large horse draped in a red and white caparison, its long mane blowing in the wind. The soldier himself was dressed in his cavalry uniform, and he held a sharp lance in his hand. As he neared my booth, I watched him pull on the reins to slow his horse’s stride. I remember the sound of the horse’s hooves pawing the muddy ground as they paused beside my stall, and the horse’s slight whinny as it tossed its head. I had to stare up toward the sky to see the face of the soldier. He studied me without a word, and I could hear my heart beating in my ears. Before I could speak, the man’s arm shot through the air and the lance stabbed a loaf of bread from my table. I cried out in surprise and jumped back. A hush fell over the marketplace. The other vendors huddled in on themselves and averted their eyes. Pulling the lance back to his side, the soldier nudged the horse’s hind quarters, and they began to back away.
“I should have remained where I was. I knew the soldier wielded power and authority and was therefore dangerous. But a fire burned in my chest and my feet moved of their own volition. I ran after the man, crying out, filled with a sense of indignation, demanding that he return what he had stolen. I was aware of the other stall keepers murmuring behind their tables. Some began to gather up their wares and close their shops. From the corner of my eye, I saw one woman gesturing frantically, her expression warning me not to pursue the soldier. But I couldn’t help myself. I called out again, louder, and the man must have heard because the horse reared on its back legs and wheeled around so the soldier was now facing me in the center of the market. Our audience watched silently, frozen by fear. Yet I didn’t shrink or shy away. I marched right up to the soldier. ‘Sir,’ I pleaded. ‘I beg you to return the loaf you have taken. I only had three loaves to sell today, and without full compensation, my parents and I will go hungry.’
“I expected the soldier to scoff, or worse yet, threaten my life. Prague at the time was on the cusp of war with growing tensions between the Emperor and the Protestants. While we stayed out of these matters, I knew the cavalry was stretched thin warding off protests and acts of civil unrest. Brutality was common amongst the soldiers to everyday citizens. I don’t know what gave me the courage to confront him. I stood there with my hands clenched, electricity pulsing in my fingertips, watching as the horse slowly cantered closer. The soldier regarded me from his lofty height, and when he finally opened his mouth to speak, I noticed how his eyes suddenly and inexplicably softened.
“’I, too, am starving’ the man said in a husky voice. ‘It is true that I am unable to pay you, but if I am to have strength to fight the Protestant mobs, I must have sustenance.’ He could easily have left it there and galloped off, but as I felt the strange electricity coursing through my hands, I watched as he reached behind him and pulled a velvet blanket with an embroidered hem from the horse’s back. ‘Take this for payment,’ he said, tossing it at my feet. ‘I pilfered it during an uprising just this morning. It is all I can offer you. Consider it a trade. We are now even.’
And with those parting words, the horse turned slowly, carrying the soldier across the uneven cobblestones and past the gates at the far end of the street. I watched, speechless, as did those around me. Feeling the weight of their eyes on my back, I finally unclenched my fists and bent to retrieve the blanket. The other shopkeepers whispered as I folded it into my cart, closed my stall, and quickly pushed the cart home.
“Once safely through my front door, I ran to tell my parents what had happened. My mother gasped, clutching her hands to her chest. My father simply stared at me over the rim of his glasses. As I unfolded the blanket to show my parents, I noticed that it felt heavier in my arms than before. Near the seam where the stitched hem met the velvet fabric, I saw a slight pucker where a thread appeared to be coming loose. As I ran my finger along the thread, it unraveled, and to my shock, a cascade of gold coins fell into my lap. I stared at them, speechless. My father leaned over and gasped at the small fortune now gathered in the skirts of my dress, glinting in the candlelight.
“’What is the meaning of this?’ he asked in a hoarse voice.
“’I don’t know, Papa,’ I insisted.
“Lifting a coin and weighing it in his hand, he stared down at his palm, silently considering.
“’Are they . . . real?’ I whispered, too nervous to hope.
“’I believe so,’ he said. ‘The weight is that of pure gold.’
“’And they’re ours now?’
“He glanced up at me then and asked, ‘What did the soldier tell you?’
“’Only that this blanket was payment for the bread.’
“Turning to my mother, he nodded slowly, swallowed, and replied, ‘Then yes, these coins are ours.’
“’It’s a miracle!’ my mother gasped, her initial distress dissolving into disbelief. And it was. The next day, my father took the coins wrapped in a bundle of unassuming cloth to be appraised and came back in a state of shock. The coins were indeed pure gold and worth a small fortune. With our newly gained wealth, I sat down to write to your father to tell him the news. We were married shortly thereafter.”
When Perel fell quiet, Gitele realized she had been holding her breath, transfixed by her mother’s tale. She blinked and sat back, amazed. She had never heard the story of her parents’ union, of their sworn vow to each other, of their enduring love. She knew her parents had arranged a shidduch for her, and she hoped that when she met the young man they’d chosen, she would feel the same way about him. She had known the boy’s name all her life, Simon Brandeis, and had even seen his portrait the year before. He was handsome enough, with soft brown curls and pale green eyes and a slight frame. Their meeting wasn’t to take place until January, when they would both be fifteen. The date had been set years ago, and it had always seemed far in the distance. Now, Gitele realized it was only three months away. The idea made her apprehensive, and she pushed it away as another thought suddenly crept into her mind.
“But Mama,” she said, “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with your dreams?”
Perel stood and began to pace. “Your father is one of the only people I’ve ever told about my dreams,” she replied. “When I did, he didn’t scoff or dismiss them as fantasy. He believed they were prophetic. He sought to help me understand their meaning. When we were forced from our home, I wrote to your father to tell him that the dreams were back. They disturbed my sleep every night. Your father, in his infinite wisdom, thought they were somehow tied to the fate of our people.”
Gitele frowned, still confused. Her mother paused at the window that looked out on the gabled rooftops of the quarter, her hands behind her back. When she continued, her tone was soft, almost reverent. “When I explained to your father what happened that day in the market, he pondered my story long and hard. He questioned the feeling that coursed through my body, the current that seemed to pulse in my hands. It was his belief that some higher force was at work that day. Whether the coins had been in the blanket all along or I had somehow conjured them, made them materialize when I needed them most, we don’t know. But your father believes I have the ability to harness power in times of need.”
“Magic?” Gitele whispered. Perel spun around, her skirts billowing in her haste, and put her finger to her lips. She stared at her daughter with wide eyes. “We don’t use that word,” she whispered. “It is too dangerous You know what happens to women accused of using magic.”
Gitele swallowed and nodded.
Taking a deep breath, Perel continued in a softer tone, “Your father has always wanted to use that power for the benefit of our people. My dreams serve as a warning call. It is in times of crisis that the calling reveals itself, and now, that calling has made itself known again. Stronger. More urgent. That is why your father fashioned the man of clay, the golem. His own visions and meditations showed him what to do. But my dreams foretold when to do it.”
“And me?” Gitele whispered, trembling. She was suddenly gripped by fear once more. She still wondered what part she played in all this, yet she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.
Kneeling before her daughter and taking Gitele’s hands in her own, Perel spoke again. “We tried many times to breathe life into the golem. But each attempt ended in failure. Then you started crying out in your sleep. Your dreams had returned. That’s when I knew. That’s when I told your father. He had spent hours analyzing our ritual, but you, Gitele, were the key. We should have prepared you. We should have warned you. We wanted to spare you. But now, trouble is brewing again.
“And thanks to you, our people will be safe.”
