“Why does the ox have a tail?” he asks.
The room falls silent, intrigued by the posing of such a stupid question.
“What kind of holy book is it that puts such questions to its readers?” Krysa goes on with that finger, which slowly turns toward the rabbis. “The Talmud!” he exclaims after a moment.
The room bursts out laughing. The sound rises to the ceiling of the courtroom, a space unaccustomed to such merry outbursts.
“And what might the Talmudic answer be?” asks Krysa, whose scarred face has flushed. After a pause, he answers his own question triumphantly: “Because it has to chase away the flies!”
There is more laughter.
The rabbis’ demands—that the Contra-Talmudists be expelled from synagogue, that they be mandated some dress other than Jewish, and that they no longer be allowed to call themselves Jewish—also seem laughable now. The consistory court, with the gravity that is proper to it, dismisses their supplication, arguing that it simply is not competent to determine who can and who cannot call themselves Jewish.
When the matter of the Lanckoroń accusations is raised, the court avoids taking a stand. There was already an investigation, after all, and it discovered nothing sinful in singing and frolicking behind closed doors. Everyone has the right to pray as he wishes. And to dance with a woman, even if that woman bares her breasts. Besides, the investigation did not conclusively establish that there were any naked women there.
Then everyone’s attention turns to the matter of the trial against the Jewish forgers. One Leyb Gdalowicz and his journeyman Hashko Shlomowicz had been striking false coins. The journeyman is acquitted, but his boss is sentenced to be beheaded and quartered. The die that made the coins has already been ceremoniously burned and crumbled prior to the execution. In accordance with the sentence, the guilty man has his head cut off, and his body is quartered and nailed to the gallows. His head is nailed to a stake.
This trial did not help the rabbis. During the final days of the disputation, they had to keep a low profile, stealing along pressed against the walls of houses, so universally had public favor turned against them.
The consistory court, too, had turned to secondary matters, one of them appalling to the Kamieniec Christians. Henshiya of Lanckoroń, a Jew who did business with peasants, had responded to a charge of having dealings with the Shabbitarians by telling his accuser, one Bazyl Knesh, that he could take the cross and stick it up his nethers. For this blasphemy, Henshiya was sentenced to one hundred lashes, to be meted out in four different parts of the city, so that as many people as possible could view the punishment.
Gershon got the same punishment for having created such turmoil in Lanckoroń and starting all of this in the first place.
The consistory court and Bishop Dembowski also recommended that the holders of the properties where the Contra-Talmudists now found themselves extend their protection to the same.
This opinion was read out and instantly approved.
The court found the Contra-Talmudists innocent of all the calumnies against them and ordered the rabbis to pay 5,000 zlotys to cover the costs of the trial and to compensate those Contra-Talmudists who were beaten and robbed in skirmishes, and to be fined an additional 152 red zlotys for the repair of the church tower in Kamieniec. And the Talmud, that mendacious and pernicious book, was to be burned throughout Podolia.
After the sentencing a silence fell, as though the Church side were aghast at its own severity, but when a translator conveyed the words of the sentence to the rabbis, cries and laments rose from their bench. They were ordered to calm down, for now they inspired only embarrassment, not sympathy. They had only themselves to blame. They left the court in righteous silence, muttering under their breath.
Moliwda, elated to have returned to his country, also feels that everything has changed. Sometimes it amuses him that he can foresee a certain thing, and then he looks into the sky; there seems to be more of it on these lowlands, and it works like a mirror lens, gathering up image after image into itself, reflecting the earth as a fresco, where everything happens simultaneously and the tracks of future events can be followed. Any person who knows how to look can simply raise his eyes to the sky. There he will see all.
When Jacob and Nahman came to talk him into going back to Poland, he wasn’t even surprised. Out of politeness, he feigned hesitation. But the truth is, the sight of Jacob jumping off his horse with panache, in his typically Turkish way, awoke in Moliwda some sudden, boyish joy at the thought of the perilous new adventure to come.
Of burning books
The Talmuds begin to burn that very same day, October 14, in the evening. Those carrying out the sentences find they don’t have to exert themselves too much. Only the first pile, the one in Kamieniec, is formally ignited by the local hangman after a reading of the order signed by Bishop Dembowski. From then on, things run their course.
In most cases, a small crowd breaks into a Jewish home and gets its hands on some book. All of these “talmutes,” with their impure pages, written in that twisted alphabet that goes from right to left, are instantly tossed out onto the street, where they get kicked into a heap, which then gets set on fire. The Sabbatians themselves, the Jewish heretics, are exceptionally eager to help the officials, who, being thus relieved of their duties, may go home and have their dinners. And then the goyim and the young men always looking for trouble join in with the Sabbatians. Books burn throughout Lwów, where every square of any significance has its own book burning, whether Talmudic or not. These fires are still smoldering the next day, and then in the evening they blaze back up again with the addition of new books. Now, all printed matter seems sinister, and even Lwów’s Christians begin to hide their books and barricade their printing presses, just in case. Over the course of only a few days, all this burning so emboldens everyone that the Kamieniec Jews, who have made this town home, irrespective of the law, have once more begun to move on with all of their belongings, this time to Karvasary, fearing for their lives. The sight of the burning books, their pages fluttering in the flames, draws people in, arrays them in a circle, like a magician at a fair who has ordered chickens to do as he says. People gaze into the flames and find they like this theater of destruction, and a free-floating anger mounts within them, although they don’t know whom to turn it on—but their outrage more or less automatically makes them hostile to the owners of these ruined books. Now one whoop would suffice to send the frenzied crowd into the nearest Jewish residence that the Contra-Talmudist guards, hoping to prevent the plunder of their own homes, might direct them toward.
Those who were only recently considered wretched, sinful, and accursed have now become legislators and enforcers. And vice versa, those who formerly judged and instructed now find themselves judged and instructed. The rabbi’s place is no longer the home of a rabbi, but a public house that all can enter, opening the door with the force of their feet. Inside, you pay no mind to shrieks of protest and instead proceed directly to the place you know books are usually kept, often in a glass case, and you pull them out one by one and then eviscerate them, holding them by their covers like chickens before they are boiled.
Some woman, often the oldest one in the house, throws herself in front of the books in desperation as though defending a weird, disabled grandchild who has been reduced to these paper dimensions, but the rest of the household is afraid to oppose the violence, evidently knowing already that the capricious forces of the world have switched sides, for who knows how long. Sometimes the women make their way to one of the ringleaders, and sometimes he’s a cousin misguided by the Sabbatian idea, and they take his hand and try desperately to catch his eye: “Itzele, what are you doing? Your mother and I used to play together down by the river!” The elders mutter from the corner: “Your hand will wither and drop off for this sacrilege.”
In Busk there aren’t so many Talmuds to burn, given how few Talmudists are left here. Most people are followers of Sabbatai. A little fire burns be
hind the synagogue, but it burns badly, smoking, since the books fell into a puddle and now don’t seem to want to catch fire. They don’t have the same determination here. Those doing the burning act as if they’re carrying out a sentence; a bottle of vodka makes its way around the fire. Young goyim try to get in on the auto-da-fé—throwing anything on flames always appeals to them, even if they don’t really know what’s happening. But they have already heard that this is some internal matter of the Jews’, so now they stand around with their hands in the pockets of their linen trousers and just gaze into the blaze.
The worst of it occurs in Kamieniec, Rohatyn, and Lwów. In these places, blood is spilled. In Lwów a madding crowd burns the whole of a Jewish library collected in a house of prayer. The windows are shattered, the pews wrecked.
The following day the riots worsen—come afternoon, the unconstrained crowd, no longer only Jewish but mixed, colorful, wild, cannot distinguish between the Talmud and other books. All that matters is that a book be filled with those bizarre letters, inherently hostile since illegible. This crowd, which has gathered for the next day’s market in Rohatyn, feels empowered to enact violence against books, and unleashes a boisterous, delighted frenzy, setting out on a hunt. People stand at the entrances of homes and demand that books be handed over, like hostages. If a homeowner is deemed to be hiding something, they strike. Blood is shed, hands and arms are broken, teeth are bashed out of mouths.
Meanwhile, outraged by the lost disputation, the rabbis have called for prayer and strict fasting, the kind of fast that has mothers refraining from breastfeeding their babies. In Lwów, Rapaport has a room for writing letters, and work there buzzes by candlelight until morning. Rabbi Rapaport himself is lying down; he was beaten in front of the synagogue, and it’s hard for him to breathe; some fear that he has broken ribs. Pinkas cries while writing out copies of letters. It certainly seems as if the end of the world is approaching, with this latest catastrophe under way, and this one is the most painful, for now people are inflicting pain on their own kind. How is it possible, how could God be putting us through such a horrendously painful trial—how can it not be a Cossack, not some wild Tatar lying in wait for our lives, but our own, our neighbors, a person with whose father or grandfather we used to play as children? They speak our language, live in our towns, and force their way into our temples, though we don’t want them there. When a people turns against itself, it means the sin of Israel is great, and God is very angry.
After a few days, when Rabbi Rapaport has more or less recovered, the representatives of the kahalim assemble and mount another fundraising campaign. The money must be conveyed to Warsaw, to the great Yavan, Brühl’s confidant, though evidently this is a bad time to bother the king with book burning—there is a war on, after all—since no answer is forthcoming.
Of Father Pikulski’s explanation to the nobles of the rules of gematria
Jerzy Marcin Lubomirski is the commander of a garrison in Kamieniec Podolski, quite a tiresome little town, far removed from the rest of the world—this is his first command post. He is twenty, tall, handsome, and—even apart from any of these happy physical traits—he has yet another advantage: he is heir to an enormous fortune. This lends him great distinction—everyone recognizes him right away, and then can’t take their eyes off him. Kamieniec is situated within his vast landholdings. Ever since such extraordinary things have started happening here, ever since this crowd has come out onto the previously empty streets, the prince has felt excited and satisfied at last. He is in constant need of new impressions, just as he needs refreshment. To the farewell dinner for Mikołaj Dembowski, on his advancement to archbishop, he brings half a dozen crates of the finest Rhine wine.
Once the first of these has been consumed, they begin to talk about the latest happenings, and Prince Lubomirski’s attention turns to the inconspicuous Father Pikulski, the archbishop’s right hand, whose task is to enlighten the nobility on Jewish questions, which are by nature murky and convoluted. Everyone wants to understand what this Jewish fuss is all about.
“There is some consolation in the Jew,” Bishop Kajetan Sołtyk pipes up, after barely managing to swallow a big bite of black pudding. He has gained weight recently. Everything about him seems exaggerated. The color of his vestments is too garish, his cuffs too starched, the chain on his chest too shiny. Pleased to have redirected everyone’s attention to himself, he continues: “The Jew looks after money and puts in his own as necessary. He is clever and eager to make his own gains, which makes him greedy on behalf of his master, as well. When I want to buy or sell something, I always summon a Jew. He’ll have his arrangements with all the merchants in this country. A Jew always knows how to do business. It’s in his interest for me to be his client, and that means he will always treat me in such a way that I feel quite sure he’s not cheating me and will render me the best service possible. There’s no serious lord and landholder around here without Israelites in his service. Is it not so, Castellan Kossakowski?”
Mrs. Kossakowska responds on behalf of her husband:
“Everyone knows Your Excellency was not created to handle matters of agriculture or business. This is precisely why we have administrators. The risk is that when they aren’t honest, they may steal. It is simply staggering to think of it.”
The topic of theft so moves everyone—and the wine really is quite excellent—that the discussion now fragments into many smaller ones, and everyone begins to converse with everyone else, across the table; the peasants serving them refill their wine, and at a discreet sign from Archbishop Dembowski, they imperceptibly switch the cases and begin to pour a wine of lesser quality, though no one seems to notice.
“What is this Kabbalah everyone is talking about?” Katarzyna Kossakowska inquires of Father Pikulski. “Even my husband has taken some interest.”
“They believe the world was created from the word,” responds the priest, swallowing loudly and setting down on his plate the sizable forkful of beef that had just been traveling to his mouth.
“Well, yes, everyone believes that: In the beginning was the Word. We believe that, too. So where’s the heresy?”
“Yes, Your Ladyship, but we leave it at that sentence, whereas they apply it to even the smallest thing.”
The priest responds with evident reluctance. It isn’t clear why—he, too, is surprised by it. Could it simply be that in his opinion it is not worthwhile to discuss with a woman such complex matters, which she will no doubt be unable to understand, even being relatively educated? Or perhaps because such questions tend to require he simplify things, regardless of his interlocutors. The bishop is a bishop, but even he requires slow and careful teaching, for he is hardly the cleverest of men. He is undoubtedly a holy man and it is not for me to judge, Pikulski mentally upbraids himself—but sometimes it is hard to talk with him.
He asks for a piece of paper and a pen so he can explain it to them visually, and then he lays it all out between the plates. The bishop encourages him by pushing away the platter with the roast goose and sliding his chair back, turning things over to Pikulski, and giving a significant glance to Kossakowska, for he knows that this unremarkable little priest has hidden strengths, reserves into which he’s now reaching, but as though with a little teaspoon, not wishing to betray himself by revealing the huge vats he has at his disposal.
“Every letter has its numerical equivalent. Aleph is one, bet two, gimel three, and so on. That means that every word made up of letters also renders a number.” He looks at them inquiringly, to check whether they are following. “Words with the same numerical values are tied to one another by some deep meaning, even if on the surface it seems there is no connection between them. You can count with words, perform arithmetic with them, and all kinds of interesting things can happen.”
Father Pikulski does not know if he should end on this, if this might be sufficient, but he can’t help himself: “Let us take the following example,” he says. “‘Father’ in Hebrew is ‘av.’
We write that this way: alef, bet, from right to left. ‘Mother’ is ‘em,’ or alef, mem. But the word ‘mother’—‘em’—can also be read as ‘im.’ ‘Av,’ ‘father,’ has a numerical value of three, because alef is one, and bet is two. ‘Mother’ has a value of forty-one, because alef is one, and mem is forty. Now: if we add the two words up, ‘mother’ and ‘father,’ then we get forty-four—the same value as ‘yeled,’ which means ‘child’!”
Kossakowska, who has been leaning over the priest’s hands, jumps back in her chair, clapping.
“How wonderful!” she declares.
Yod, lamed, dalet, writes Father Pikulski on the bishop’s paper, and gazes down at it in triumph.
Bishop Sołtyk doesn’t really follow, and these numbers are already confusing him. He is wheezing. He needs to lose weight. Archbishop Dembowski, meanwhile, raises his eyebrows, a sign that this might be of interest to him in the future.
“According to the Kabbalah, when a man has carnal relations with a woman, their alphabets meet, and it is these alphabets, in intermingling, that occasion the conception of a child.”
Archbishop Dembowski coughs delicately once, twice, and then goes back to eating.
“Kabbalah or no,” Katarzyna Kossakowska says, her cheeks pink from the wine, “something unprecedented in the world is happening among us now. Thousands of Jews are wanting to convert to the Catholic faith. They are cozying up to us like chicks to a mother hen, poor and exhausted by their own Jewishness—”
“You are mistaken,” Father Pikulski interrupts her, clearing his throat out of embarrassment; Kossakowska looks at him, startled by this intrusion into her train of thought. “They have much to gain from it. They have long looked at our country as a shiny new promised land . . .”
The Books of Jacob Page 38
