Golemcrafters

An important and insightful novel for the times we're living in now

Editor’s note:

After The Lost Ryū, I’m a fan of Emi Watanabe Cohen’s work. She steeps her fantasy novels in history while still grounding them in the present. Golemcrafters is a novel that speaks to the era of Jewish history that we are living in now. It’s about claiming your identity/ identities, Jewish pride, and standing up in the face of persecution.

While some reviewers suggest, despite having a middle grade protagonist, that this book might be too dark for middle grade readers, the world is dark and middle graders are exposed to images of violent Jewish persecution in real time. It will appeal to young adult readers and adults as well. Golemcrafters, in addition to being enthralling, is thought provoking and adds historical context to what we are now experiencing.

Emi Watanabe Cohen’s Golemcrafters was published by Levine Querido (November 12, 2024). It’s available for purchase through Levine Querido and wherever books are sold. The following excerpt was printed with permission from the author.

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My brother can always tell when I’m lying, which is unfortunate since he’s the only person I ever try to lie to. Maybe it’s my tone of voice that tips him off this time, or maybe I do that shifty-eyed thing that robbers do in old cartoons. Either way, Shiloh knows. “You think it’s creepy,” he says.

“Nooooo,” I say.

Definitely shifty eyes that time.

Look, you gotta admit, it’s weird that our estranged grandfather sent Shiloh a box of uncured clay as a bar mitzvah present. Most of our other relatives gave him books—we now have no fewer than five copies of the Old Testament from Mom’s well-intentioned yet confused Japanese Catholic relatives. And then our one living Jewish grandparent sends him clay?

“Hey, he also sent me eighteen dollars,” Shiloh says defensively. He holds up the envelope it came in and an unbranded greeting card with a happy golden retriever on the front. “That was probably a lot when he was a kid!”

“But what’s with the clay?” I ask. “Does he want you to make something with it?”

“How should I know?!”

This wouldn’t be an issue at all, except handwritten thank-you notes are more important for a bar mitzvah than receiving gifts. It’s a tradition! Five hours into our spring break and Shiloh still hasn’t figured out how to write Thank you for the lump of clay, Grandpa without sounding sarcastic. I suggested he add I’m not being sarcastic at the end, but then that sounded sarcastic.

“Ask Dad for help,” I say for the fifty-millionth time.

“You know what he’ll say!”

What Dad will say is grumble-grumble-grumble. He’s never liked his father, and whatever this clay business is hasn’t helped much. Usually when he gets home from work, he spends a few minutes catching up with Shiloh and me; today, he took one look at the box of clay on Shiloh’s desk and stalked off to barricade himself in Mom’s home office. “Well . . .” I say.

“I’m going to try writing it in Hebrew,” Shiloh says. He triple-clicks his clicky pen and sits down at his desk with a determined air. The window to our shared bedroom is propped open to let in the brisk evening breeze, so he has to hold his paper down with his elbow or else it’ll get blown away. “He’ll be so impressed with my studiousness, it won’t even occur to him to be offended by—” He hesitates. “What’s the Hebrew word for clay?”

“Um,” I say.

“Come to think of it, what’s the Hebrew word for thank you?”

“My Hebrew school teacher says ‘Sheket be’vakashah’ every two seconds,” I offer, thinking of poor Morah Ayelet and her existential exhaustion. I grab my own desk chair and drag it over so I can sit next to Shiloh. “That means ‘Quiet please,’ right? Pick one. You’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of being close enough.”

“Ugh.” Shiloh drops his pen and rubs his eyes with his hands. “That’s it. I’m hopeless. I’m the worst Jew!”

“You are not the worst Jew,” I say.

“I can’t even send a polite thank-you note!”

“Our grandfather can’t send a polite bar mitzvah gift,” I point out. “I think that makes him the worst Jew.”

“This would be so much easier if we knew what the clay meant,” Shiloh says. He glares at the box, which has been sitting morosely on the corner of his desk since we opened it earlier. “Is it a metaphor for life? Does it symbolize fate?”

“I think it might be clay,” I say. I get on my tiptoes to peer over the cardboard flaps. “Have you tried sculpting anything yet?”

Shiloh gets all shifty eyed. “No . . .” he says.

I give him my best Mom Look.

“Okay, okay, I did!” Shiloh exclaims. “I took a little chunk but . . . it was weird.”

“Weird how?” I ask.

Shiloh shakes his head. “You wouldn’t understand,” he says.

“Try me,” I say.

But Shiloh refuses to try me, because he’s Shiloh Meisel, the Responsible Big Brother who takes care of his poor, clueless baby sister, even though she was taller than him until two months ago when he hit his growth spurt.

I scoff, pushing past him to touch the clay and see for myself.

“Wait, wait!” Shiloh exclaims. He grabs my wrist. “It . . . made me see things.”

I stare at him. “What things?”

“It was . . .” Shiloh makes a face like he’s trying to remember. “A guy with a beard. A Gandalf beard.”

“You saw a wizard?” I say.

“No? Maybe. He was younger than most wizards in books. And he was standing in this grassy field . . .” Shiloh shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Huh,” I say.

A long moment passes.

“Was it drugs?” I ask.

Shiloh lets go of my wrist, scandalized. “I don’t do drugs!” he says.

“Yeah, I know, but if this clay is making you hallucinate—”

“It wasn’t a hallucination,” Shiloh insists. “I don’t know how to describe it . . .”

“I wanna try!” I say. I make a grab for the clay again, but Shiloh pushes me forcefully back. “No,” he says.

“But—”

“You’re too young!” Shiloh says.

“I am not—”

“Our grandpa sent this clay to me.” Shiloh points at himself for effect. “Me. So it’s my responsibility to figure out what it is.” He looks back at the clay. “And write a thank-you note for it.”

I stick my tongue out at the back of his head and drag my chair back to my own desk. I shoot a furtive glance at Shiloh before opening up my school-issued laptop.

See, the golden retriever card may have been unbranded, but it wasn’t unsigned. Mazal tov, our grandfather wrote on the inside. My E-Mail address is judahmeis@mail if you have questions. Love, Zeyde. And boy oh boy, do I have questions.

Shiloh thinks digital thank-you notes aren’t as meaningful as paper ones, and if he were being less annoying today, I would agree with him. But he won’t ask for anyone’s help, and I’m a problem solver.

Dear Estranged Relative,

Hello! My name is Faye. I’m Shiloh’s little sister. He’s trying to write a thank-you note for you right now, but he can’t figure out what to say because he’s not sure what the clay is for. He’s worried about offending you. So if you don’t get a note in the mail in a timely manner, please know that it’s not because my brother is rude. He’s just very stressed all the time.

Thanks for the clay, Grandpa. I promise I’m not being sarcastic.

Love, Faye Meisel

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Emi Watanabe Cohen is the author of The Lost Ryū (2022) and Golemcrafters (2024). Her work usually involves Jewish and/or Japanese folklore, complicated families, and a dash of improbable magic. She earned her BA in Creating Writing at Brandeis University in 2021, and is currently pursuing a degree in Library Information Science at Simmons University.

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Five Tiny Jewish Delights:

• The smell of melted candle wax on Shabbat evenings

• The sound of the shofar at the start of a brand-new year

• The taste of potato latkes (with applesauce, of course!)

• The sight of handwritten Hebrew

• The weight of old books in my hands
  

Five Tiny Delights:

• Homemade miso soup

• Knitting with soft wool

• Seeing a dog unexpectedly

• Heavy snow on overcast days

• Pigeons

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