Vengeance
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About this ebook
Life for the Jews of 1983 Lodz is difficult and dangerous, but when Katrina finds a book hidden deep within an ancient temple, she discovers the words of magic that bring forth the Golem to protect her.
Steven Starklight
Steven Starklight is a twenty year veteran of law enforcement, with extensive experience spanning coast to coast and overseas. He has served as a police officer, deputy sheriff, police legal adviser, assistant district attorney and most recently, as a special agent of the FBI. He is a recognized expert and has provided instruction in the fields of Criminal Law, Evidence, and Police Ethics. He has spoken at numerous venues regarding various law enforcement matters and has earned numerous accolades for his work. Steven has advanced degrees in Philosophy and Law and has written several books on law enforcement and several fictional titles being prepared for publication. His writings have been published in at least one law review and cited by many others. Mr. Starklight has settled on the west coast and is married with two children. He enjoys spending time with his family, writing, and putting perps in jail.
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Vengeance - Steven Starklight
נקמה
Vengeance:
A Short Tale of the Golem
By Steven Starklight
A Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Steven Starklight
Discover Other Titles by Steven Starklight at Smashwords.com.
PROLOGUE
Deep within the dark forests of Lodz, beneath the detritus of springs and summers past, below the snow banks and ice, within the frozen breast of Poland itself, lay a relic, a sleeping tool of righteous vengeance, made of the same earth in which it lies, forgotten by time. Formed from ancient prayers and pure despair, made only of those ingredients found in plenty by those with nothing, he was given life once, clenching his fists and opening a mouth of clay as if to scream, but made only of clay, his scream was silent. Golem.
CHAPTER 1
December 1944. Lodz, Poland
Tzippi knelt in the snow cradling what remained of her husband’s head. She had to wait until she was certain that the Gestapo had left before sneaking out from their small apartment across from the temple where he had held services just hours before. Now, shivering in the icy cold darkness of a Polish winter, she held her husband as he took his last few short, rattling breaths, and then it was only her, alone, clutching the corpse of the town’s only rabbi.
She had heard the commotion outside and came running to the window in time to see them drag him out of the temple and toss him into the street. Then the beating started with a flurry of boots, sticks, and fists. They used a boot knife to saw at his peyas, tossing them into the snow. She wanted to scream but knew what would happen if they heard her. Tzippi waited for them to leave, seeing their icy, bluish tinged faces under the cold streetlights, taking a step back behind the gauzy drapes when one glanced up to her window as if hearing her thoughts. Their children stood, terrified, behind her, afraid to go near the window; however, they all hear the final shot of the Luger. When they finally gathered the courage to approach the glass, they all saw the pink and white heap in the middle of the street, a sprinkling of snow collecting in places.
Most of their small congregation had also watched the ordeal from the tenement in which most of them lived. No Jews slept at night in Poland; a knock at their door was enough to cause a heart attack or nervous breakdown. But they had all watched the Rabbi tortured and murdered, unable to turn away, silent witness to the atrocities of the Nazis. As Tzippi kneeled at his body, covered in his blood, they crept out into the street to lift him up and carry him into the temple. No-one said a word. The Nazis never cleaned up after themselves; they left their messes for the Jews to clean up. She remained in the bloody snow a moment longer, then looked up to their little apartment window, seeing her children watching their little faces expressionless in their shock.
The next morning, Tzippi tended to her children, and then did her wifely duty of burying her husband. She then went through the motions of tending to his flock. She watched the clock, and as the hours passed, so too did her resolve. Jews do not suffer their dead to remain long above the earth, and by nightfall he was resting in Poland’s soil. Death had become so commonplace for the Jews of Poland that by the next day he was forgotten by most, or at least put out of their mind. He was not forgotten by Tzippi. She left her children with some close friends later that evening, and she walked across the street toward the temple.
The temple was in an ancient part of their ancient town, a rough hewn tribute to the work of stonemasons long dead. It had been there for centuries. Tzippi unlocked the great doors and entered the old, chilly foyer, past the mezuzah. Kissing her hand and resting it on the little cylinder on her way in, she walked briskly past the foyer and toward a recessed door in the back. This door she also un-locked, then paused to light a match, then a candle. There were no bulbs, no electricity in this part of the building. The candle cast the stairs leading down in a macabre glow. The temple had been destroyed twice by fire and rebuilt, but the foundation and most of this basement was part of the original structure from the 1600’s. Tzippi reflected briefly upon the temple history’s similarity to that of Solomon’s great temple, re-claimed long ago by the earth. She finally arrived at another door, in the very back of this basement. This door was smaller than the others, perhaps three quarters the size of a normal door, and made from ancient wood of unknown origin, roughly cut, but strong. The door was unlocked.
Tzippi opened the door. Beyond was