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London

“Close its mouth.”

A shaking hand pushed the clay jaw shut. Round eyes glowed as the scroll inside the creature's maw was absorbed. The green glare of otherworldly power connected with each of the men in the basement underneath the Great Synagogue.

“Do you hear?”

A nod.

“Do you obey without question?” A man with a long white beard and small spectacles stepped forward. He was not long for this world and had long ago given up on fear.

The creature nodded again.

“You will take the form of a man, the name of a man, a proper Englishman.” The elderly scholar slapped a sheaf of forged papers into the golem’s hand.

The doughy gray texture changed and shifted, narrowing and refining. Blobs became fingers. Round holes became lively and bright, green irises showing gray pupils alive with intelligence.

“You will speak like a man, a well-bred Englishman, a great teacher whom no one would dare to question. You will take the children whose names you hold aboard a vessel and protect them until they reach New York. Once they have been given into the care of Shuyla Rosen, you will return on the next ship. You are to carry out the task of protecting innocents who espouse our cause until you are unmade. Above all, you are to protect the children of our people.”

The golem nodded again. It wouldn’t question the six men in the shadows. It was told not to.

Besides, it liked this job. “Protect?”

“Any in our cause, yes. Any innocents who would preserve life and end destruction.”

Another nod.

“He’ll never pass. He’s too broad for an ordinary man. He’s gray, as well.”

“He will leave when it is dark and foggy. He will remain with the children below. He will learn. He is not mindless clay, this one.”

Another man stepped forward, this one young and dark-haired, thin-faced with a pointed chin and wide, admiring eyes. “He was made with more knowledge and skill than any golem ought to have, Rabbi.”

“That is what this hour calls for.”

Voices whispered, “If he should turn against us—”

“I will not. I will take the children. I will care for them all.” The golem moved unsteadily, proud of the way something was surging through his heavy flesh that made him more alert, more alive.

He was not simply animated—he was living.

But even as that awareness hit him, something was missing.

Some spark. Some deep, quiet part of him that he was smart enough to know he did not possess.

Even as he had thoughts, he knew they were not entirely free.

“Good. You are good.” The bright-eyed man, little more than a boy, pressed another paper carefully into his thick fingers.

“Do I have a name?” His deep croak of a voice scared the men farther back. They jumped.

The young one dared to pat his elbow. “A good English name. Let’s call him Reginald.”

“Reginald Levy.”

“No! No, you can’t use that name. No name that will tell anyone he is helping us.” The man with the long white beard shook his head. “We won’t risk it. This is Mr. Reginald Gray—and he may be our salvation."

REGINALD. THE HUMANS insisted on calling him that name and speaking to him in English, not the language of their forefathers, a language he knew with some innate wisdom.

They gave commands. Protect the children.

From what? With that same innate knowledge that allowed for understanding of an ancient tongue, he knew children would fear his size and ferocity.

Until he was taken outside, and red and silver sparks lit up a smoke-filled sky.

Arthur, the youngest of his six creators, hurried him along the streets where sirens wailed. People needed to get inside buildings, but the buildings were falling.

“We have passage booked for ten children,” Arthur whispered. Arthur spoke to him like a man, not a monster, his voice urgent. “You will make sure they arrive in America, where their bombs haven’t reached—yet. That’s the first batch. You’ll come back and get more. I’ll go with you when I can.”

“I understand.”

“Do you understand we have to live until the boat sets sail next week?” Arthur gasped as scarlet sparks burst directly above them.

A building teetered. People screamed. Walls began to fall, and Reginald’s eyes glowed. Something inside woke up.

Protect the innocent. My people.

The strength of a hundred men was in his clay form, and it was easy to catch the wall that zoomed toward Arthur. It was only slightly more difficult to take a hunk of the rubble and hurl it far and high into the night sky. In seconds, they heard the buzzing wail of a plane going down.

Arthur uncurled from where he had fallen and crouched. His eyes were dazed, then happy. “You took out one of the Jerries, my friend!”

“They were harming the innocent.”

“You saved me.”

“You are innocent. You are one of my people.”

Arthur reached out and wrapped his small, warm human hands around Reginald’s massive gray one. “And you are one of my people. Come. There are many more to meet, all more helpless than I am.”

“Where?”

“The Solomon Children’s Home. Rabbi Solomon helps orphans find parents. He’s sent as many as he can to homes in Worthing and Hertford since the start of the Blitz.” Arthur guided him along, looking back over his shoulder. “We’ll have to walk. No trains running this late.”

Reginald kept up easily. “I take the boat to Hertford?”

“No. You take the ones he’s getting now to America.” Arthur’s hushed voice dropped even further. “They’re from Poland and France. The war has already reached them. We’re their last hope. Reginald! Doodlebug!”

Reginald turned his head toward the incredibly loud buzzing thing that came from above.

Arthur was screaming, running into the dark with his hands over his head.

Reginald expanded his chest and moved into the path of the buzzing monster—the real monster.

Pain exploded inside of him, eating through his middle and burning his arms. It felt like his head was flying free from his body for a minute—and then it all stopped.

Arthur was next to him, mouth open.

How had he ended up on his back?

Reginald looked down as he slowly sat up. The hole in his chest was blackened and charred—but already closing. “I need a new shirt.”

“Some of the girls at the orphanage sew.” Arthur pulled him to his feet with a huge, straining grunt. “Come on, friend.”

“Yes. Friend.”

He liked the word.

May 10th, 1941

Southampton

Yvette LaFontaine stood for a long time on the docks before she approached the gangplank leading to the SS Abundance .

As a member of the French Resistance, she knew that the papers she had sewn in the lining of her skirt had to get to an American agent on board.

Her father and brother had already given their lives for the cause. So had her husband.

But my child will not suffer the same fate.

Yvette twisted the ring on her finger and swallowed hard as she put her hands on her middle.

Six-months pregnant. Four months a widow.

The men and women who met in the underground rooms of bars and the hidden walls in stables gave her this job because they were certain a pregnant woman would stand less chance of being seen as a threat—and maybe because they felt guilty that Yvette had lost all of her family.

Having relatives in America and having met them in London before the war, she spoke English well, and her papers had not been confiscated yet.

Her ticket was one-way for many reasons.

But ships crossing the Atlantic didn’t have wonderful odds of arriving. U-boats were ruthless, blowing up cargo ships, passenger ships, and warships alike.

But it was nothing like what they were doing to Paris and London. To Europe.

Dead in the water. Dead on the ground.

Her hand balled into a fist above the place where her son or daughter kicked.

Well. We are going to try. We are brave French stock, you and I.

“Here, mother, let me help you.”

Yvette turned, ready to strike, when a young, thin man took her elbow.

“Don’t be scared. You’re among friends,” he whispered, and marched with her onboard, muddling her into a crowd of children and a hulking, silent figure in an elegantly cut suit.

“I must find a Mr. John Whitehall,” Yvette told her unwitting assistant.

“Your husband?”

“One of our family friends.”

Something passed between them. A knowing look under polite eyes.

“I will let you know if I find him. I’m sure he will spot a woman as lovely as you and rush to your side, madam.

” The young man doffed his hat and left with the pack of children and the silent man in gray.

He turned back with a bow. “I am Mr. Sloane, Arthur Sloane, if you need assistance while we make this crossing.”

“Yvette LaFontaine. A pleasure.”

REGINALD LIKED THE children. They were not afraid of him, surprisingly.

Maybe they understood better than the rest of the world the true definition of “monster.” The little ones clung to him, knowing he would keep them safe.

When they cuddled close, trusting him, he felt something deep inside stirring.

A place where a soul ought to be. Something grew.

When he passed the mirrors in the single cabin they all shared, he was startled to see how his face and form were changing.

Every day with the little humans brought him closer to a human appearance.

In the middle of the night on May 11th, or perhaps it was the morning of May 12th, he woke up with a harsh cry, that empty inner pit suddenly searing with pain. Perhaps it was not so empty, after all.

“What is it?” Arthur Sloane, whose true name was Arthur Solomon, sat up as well.

“My creator... My life-giver... Something has happened. But I... I am not unmade?” Reginald whispered, hands patting his solid arms and rock-like torso.

Arthur chewed his lip for a minute, then whispered, eyes skirting over the children. “You won’t be unmade. There were six of us who helped make you. All of us have the final words to end your animation, Mr. Gray.”

“Call me Reginald.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. How about Reggie? I like that.”

“I like that, too.”

“I am one who had a hand in making you, however small. That’s why they sent me with you, and they sent Jacob Cohen far out into the country, to Yorkshire.

What you felt... I am afraid it means the worst has happened to one of our number.

” Arthur patted a sleeping head beside him on the floor. “But we carry on.”

“We carry on.” Reginald nodded. It was a solid motto. He liked it.

The next morning, wires hummed across Europe and the Atlantic, letting the world know that London had been bombed yet again, and the Great Synagogue of London had been destroyed.

Reginald and Arthur did not yet know which of their number had been in the secret rooms below, but that was the only explanation for the searing pain in Reginald’s chest. To distract himself, the golem tried to remember the words of his primary creator, the old rabbi with the long white beard and lively eyes.

Protect the innocent. Prevent destruction. Above all, protect our children.

“You must tell the captain to change course and sail toward Halifax, not New York. We are in danger on this path.”

Arthur blinked. “I can’t just tell—”

“You have to, or this ship will be hit by German missiles, fired from under the water. Do not ask me how I know. I just know.”

Arthur puffed out his cheeks and let out a long sigh. I’ll make them listen. I’ll go now.”

“And find Mrs. LaFontaine. She and her unborn son are not safe. John Whitehall is a double agent. The real John Whitehall is dead. The man on this ship took his identification papers.”

Arthur let out a curse. “How—”

“Do not ask me how. I just know . I may lack a soul, but perhaps that means my mind is keener? Bring Mrs. LaFontaine to sit with the children, and I will keep her safe until we find the right people.” Reginald slowly got to his feet.

“ I will deal with the false Mr. Whitehall.” The ocean had recently become home to so many bodies.

It was time to give the Atlantic one more, one who deserved to join those who had suffered from the destruction of his cause.

The young man’s eyes glowed. “You are the best ever made, Reggie. A hero. You’re going to do great things.”

The golem licked his lips. They were drying out. He needed to stand on deck at some point and let the spray from the ocean and the wet breezes heal the cracks in his skin. “Once I do these great deeds, will the empty part of me fill up?”

“Ah.” Arthur licked his lips, too, even though he wasn’t made of clay. “I have heard that golems can attain complete free will. Humanity. Even a soul. But another must give their heart and soul to them first.”

“A sacrifice?” Reggie understood how people feared his kind, then. “No wonder you fear my kind turning against you.”

“No, no. Not a sacrifice. Love . The true love of another. When humans were made, we believe they were not destined to be alone. Adam had his Eve. The Torah teaches that a man and his wife become one. They are no more twain, but one flesh. You would need a bride, my friend. A bride who truly loves you as you are, and... I’m afraid that cannot happen with your kind.

A golem is always a golem, and you do not have the souls of humans.

Even if I were to make you a mate once we arrived in New York, she would never complete you. ”

It was unspoken but obvious that a human woman, a woman with a soul and love to share, would never love a golem. She would be flesh and blood, and he would be lifeless earth.

“So my life will always be empty?”

“No. Your life will always have purpose. But that little spot? I don’t know, Reggie. Maybe other things will fill it.”

Reginald thought of the smallest children who liked to nestle into his arms, poor things, so desperately sick with loss and longing for the families they’d had stolen from them before being smuggled to London, and now fleeing again.

Something grew inside him when he comforted them. “Maybe, Arthur. Maybe.”