“You really have to watch their hands at all times,” adds Bishop Sołtyk.
“. . . they’re now executing a sentence to do with their Talmud, but the sentence ought to be carried out against all their books. The Kabbalah is a certain type of dangerous superstition that really should be banned. It teaches a way of worshipping God that is pure heresy. It allegedly also teaches how to predict the future and promotes the performance of magic. Kabbalah definitely comes not from God, but from Satan.”
“You exaggerate, Father.” Now Kossakowska is the one to interrupt. “And even if it were to have the stench of sulfur, regardless, soon they will all find another kind of life in the lap of the Church. That’s why we’re all here, after all, to help these lost souls when they declare their best intentions.”
Prince Jerzy Marcin Lubomirski eats his blood pudding; it’s the best thing they’ve served at this dinner. The meat is tough, and the rice is overcooked again. The cabbage gives off a strange, musty smell. His interlocutors are old and boring. He doesn’t know anything about Jews, whom he has only ever seen from afar. Only once has he had a more intimate acquaintance with one, one of the girls who is always orbiting the garrison, whores of every stripe and nation, so that the soldiers may pick their type and color.
Of newly appointed Archbishop Dembowski, who is preparing for a journey
Waiting for his packing trunks, which might arrive at any moment, ready to set off at once for Lwów to assume the archbishopric, the bishop takes another good look at the sets of underwear he has had sewn and then had the women embellish with his monogram: MD, Mikołaj Dembowski.
The monograms are embroidered in purple silk thread. And the silk stockings he requested have been sent from abroad, Bishop Dembowski having long since given up on the local linen ones. There are white stockings as well as purple ones that are the same shade as his monogram and that also feature stitching around their delicate cuffs. He has something brand-new, too: long underwear, made of delicate wool, which scratches him a little around the hips but provides him with the warmth of which he has been so desirous.
It would seem that he is pleased. Who knows whether his subtle attempts at the archbishopric might not have been reevaluated in light of recent events—so many poor people, cast out by their own, humiliated, yet feeling the merciful heart of Jesus Christ palpable and near. The bishop will not let the matter rest until this whole Jewish multitude is baptized. It would be a great miracle for all of Europe, perhaps the dawn of a new era. He inspects the books that have been readied for the trunks, and his gaze falls upon a volume just bound in fresh leather. He knows what this is. Smiling, he picks it up, flips through it, and lands on this little ditty:
What is wrong with Poland?
Wrong are the roads and the rulers of Poland,
Wrong are the bridges, narrow and broad,
Wrong the countless people who have been spared the rod.
The bishop smiles to himself, touched by the poem’s naiveté. If only Father Chmielowski had as much wisdom as zeal! After a little consideration, he adds this book, with its beautiful binding, to the pile with the rest.
On the last night before his planned departure, Bishop Dembowski goes to bed in his castle in Czarnokozińce quite late, his hand numb from writing letters (all attempting to organize Jewish questions, including a letter to the king that urges him to support this noble campaign). He awakens in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, somehow very stiff, his neck like solid wood, his head aching. He dreamed of something awful, but he can’t quite remember what it was. Some sort of trampling, a violence, such sharp edges, the sound of fabric being torn, cracks, a guttural babbling of which he understands not a word. As he lies in the darkness, still trembling with fear, he tries to reach his hand out to ring for a servant, but he feels he cannot move, that the hand that spent the whole day writing letters—his own hand—will not obey him now. That is impossible, he thinks, terrified. This is a dream. An animal panic overwhelms him.
He notices an unusual smell, and with intensifying terror, he realizes he’s wet himself. He wants to move but he cannot; this is exactly what he dreamed of—that he could not move. He wants to cry out for a servant, but his lungs will not obey—they don’t have the strength to take in any air or to let him make the slightest whimper. He lies motionless until morning, on his back, his breathing fast as a rabbit’s. He starts to pray, but since his prayers arise from fear, they break off, and then the bishop doesn’t even know what he is saying. He feels as if some invisible figure has come and sat on his breast, some phantom, and if he cannot dislodge it, this phantom will kill him. He tries to calm down and settle back into his body, feel an arm, a leg, sense his stomach, tighten his buttocks, move his finger. But he quickly retreats, for nothing remains there. All that is left is his hand, as though it hangs in an absolute vacuum. The whole time he feels like he is falling, and he has to hold on to the sconce with his eyes; the sconce is high up in the bishop’s bedroom in Czarnokozińce, hanging over the trunks he’s packed. Thus he remains, in mortal terror.
In the morning a servant finds him, and a big fuss is raised. The medics let his blood; it flows black and thick, and their faces reveal mounting concern.
After his blood is let, the bishop’s condition improves somewhat. He starts to move his fingers and his head. Faces bend over him, saying something, asking, looking on in sadness and in sympathy. But they just depress him, they’re made up of too many different parts, so that his head spins, and he’s dizzy and nauseated—eyes, mouth, nose, wrinkles, ears, moles, warts, there’s just too much, it’s unbearable, and his eyes flit back up to the sconce. He seems to know that someone’s hands are touching him, but all he can feel is the absolute estrangedness of his own body. People stand over him, but he cannot understand their conversations. He catches a word here and there, but he can’t hold on to any, as they don’t create sentences or meaning. The people leave, and then there is only a candle. In the near-darkness the bishop would very much like for someone to hold his hand; what he wouldn’t give for the warm, rough interior of anyone’s hand . . .
When the candle goes out, for his caretakers are sleeping, he starts to writhe and scream—or rather, he feels like he is screaming, but in reality he can’t get any sound out—so frightened is he of the dark.
The next day his brother comes. Oh yes, he recognizes him: although he does not look upon his face, he hears his voice. He knows that it is he and this brings him relief, so he falls asleep, but there, in his dreams, it is the same as when he is awake. In his dreams he is lying in the same place and has the same terror of darkness. His brother goes away. In the evening his mind begins to generate images. He is in Kamieniec, near his house, near the cathedral, but instead of standing on the ground, he’s hanging in midair, at the height of the edge of the roof. He sees that pigeons have nested in the eaves, but their nest is empty save for some broken old eggshells. Then he sees a bright, luminous statue of the Virgin Mary set atop a tall column, the statue he recently blessed, and for a moment the fear subsides, but the instant he looks at the river and beholds the great bulk of the fortress, it returns. He feels on him the indifferent gaze of countless eyes peering from the void, as if millions of people were awaiting him there.
He sees books burning, swelling from the heat and then cracking like potatoes in the flames. But before the flames can lick the white off those pages, the letters, like ants or other speedy little creatures, escape in droves, in strings, and vanish into the darkness. Bishop Dembowski sees them very clearly and is not at all surprised that the letters are alive, some of them scampering on tiny pin-like legs, while others, legless—the simplest letters—either hop or slither. The bishop has no idea what they are called, but this flight of theirs is moving to him, and he leans into them almost tenderly until he sees that none remain, that all that is burning are blank pages.
Then Bishop Dembowski loses consciousness. It does not help to let his blood.
That even
ing, he dies.
The doctors and those watching over the bishop—his secretary and his closest colleague, Father Pikulski—are utterly dumbfounded by his passing. How can it be? He was in good health. No, he wasn’t in good health, he had problems with his blood, which circulated too slowly, was too thick, which is why he died. But he never complained of any ailment. Maybe he just didn’t mention it when something was wrong. All he ever said was that he was cold. But that’s not a reason for a person to die. And so a decision is made to delay the announcement of his death. For now they just sit there in that big house, not knowing what to do. That same day, the rest of the underwear he ordered arrives, and the trunks for his manuscripts are brought. This happens on November 17, 1757.
Of the life of dead Yente in the winter of 1757, also known as the year the Talmud was burned, followed by the books of those who burned the Talmud
An event like the archbishop’s death is singular and will never be repeated. Every situation and everything that creates it can happen only once. All the individual elements converge for one performance only, just as actors invited to appear will play their roles, although whatever gesture, crossing of the stage, or brief, rushed dialogue will, if taken out of context, instantly slip into the absurd.
And yet it does create a certain chain of events in which we must trust because we have nothing else. If you look at it from very close up, as Yente sees things now, you can see all those bridges, hinges, gears, and bolts, and all the minor instruments that link distinct, singular, and unique events. It is these that form the underpinnings of the world, these that transport this or that word over into events in the vicinity, these that reproduce some gesture or facial expression many times in other contexts, rhythmically, these that bring into contact time after time the same objects or the same people, these that launch the phantom trains of thought between things that are naturally strangers.
All this is clearly visible from where Yente is now; everything can be seen flickering and ceaselessly transforming—how beautifully it pulsates. Nothing can be grasped in its entirety because it has already passed away, disintegrated into particles, and immediately created a completely new and equally fleeting pattern, though the previous one seemed to make sense a second ago, or looked lovely, or was amazing. When you try to follow any human figure, she or he changes, so that it would be hard to be certain, even for a moment, that it is still the same person. This one, for instance, was a grimy child, fragile as a wafer, just a moment ago, but is now a tall, sturdy woman who steps out of a house and in one fell swoop has tossed out the dirty liquid from a bucket. The wash water wrecks the white of the snow and leaves yellow stains across its surface.
Only Yente is unchanging, only Yente can repeat and can keep going back to the same place. She can be trusted.
The news of Bishop Dembowski’s death spreads before Hanukkah and Christmas; this news, woeful for some, is a source of joy for others. It is surprising, like someone taking a knife to a patiently woven kilim. So many maneuvers in vain! Another bit of news journeys fast on the heels of that one, reaching Korolówka alongside the snowstorm: as soon as the protector of the true believers died, the rabbis reared their heads again and reinitiated their persecution, so that those whose Talmuds were just being burned are now burning the books of their erstwhile persecutors. As for Jacob Frank, it appears he is under arrest behind the thickest possible walls. Those in Korolówka gaze at one another grimly. By the evening of the day after the news reaches them, they sit together in Israel’s shed, and it’s hard for them to keep themselves from swapping whispers. Soon their voices grow resounding.
“This is the struggle of greater forces . . .”
“It was the same with Sabbatai. They put him in prison, too . . .”
“That’s how it has to be. Imprisonment is part of the plan . . .”
“This had to happen, and now everything will start . . .”
“These are the last days . . .”
“This is the end.”
The snow falls on the roads and covers everything around, and even the cemetery and the matzevot disappear beneath an impenetrable whiteness. Wherever you look, there is just snow and more snow. By some miracle, a merchant from Kamieniec manages to make it over these massive tracts of snow all the way to their village. He doesn’t even have the strength to unharness his horses. He just squints, his eyes blinded by the frost on his lashes. He says:
“Jacob isn’t in prison. He got away from Rohatyn and went straight to Czernowitz—that’s in Turkey. He is with his wife and children in Giurgiu, and he’s even—or so people say—setting up some business there.”
In a startlingly sad voice, someone says:
“He has abandoned us.”
It certainly would seem that way. He has left Poland behind, a dark and gloomy country in spite of the snowy white that covers it. There is no longer a place for him here.
At first they listen to the messenger in disbelief, but soon their disbelief turns to anger, not toward Jacob, who escaped, but rather with themselves, because they should have known how things were going to turn out. The worst is the realization that nothing is ever going to change now. The excrement of the horse standing in front of Israel’s home steams in the frost, ruining the clean white sheet of snow, a sad proof of the weakness of all of creation; it rapidly transforms into a frozen lump of matter.
“God has released us from him and from the many temptations he represented,” says Sobla, going into the house, where she bursts into tears. She cries all evening. No one knows why she’s crying—she didn’t even like Jacob, his noisy retinue, those conceited lady guardians, shifty Nahman. She never believed a single word they said, and their teachings made her afraid.
Israel scolds her. But once they are lying under the goose-down duvet, breathing in the damp smell of feathers collected from several generations of geese, he awkwardly tries to hold her to him.
“I feel like I’m in prison . . . My whole life is a prison,” Sobla sobs, taking a lot of air into her lungs, but she is unable to say anything more. Israel doesn’t say anything, either.
Then an even more astonishing piece of news comes to them—that over there in Turkey, Jacob has converted to the Muslim religion. Now Israel, too, sinks into a chair, overcome. His mother is the one to remind him that it was the same with the First, Sabbatai. Did he not don a turban? Is this not also in the design for salvation? Their speculations go into the night. For some, this is an act of cowardice, an unimaginable act. For others, it is a clever political move. No one believes that Jacob really became a follower of Muhammad.
Even the most bizarre, most frightening thing can start to seem natural, familiar, when it becomes a part of the plan. This is what Israel says. He’s now in the lumber trade with Christians. He buys newly hewn trees from the forest from the local lord, then sells them onward. With the donations given to Yente he’s been able to purchase a well-built cart and two strong horses—powerful assets. Sometimes, as he is waiting for a load, he squats down with the lumberjacks and they smoke a pipe together. He has especially good talks with the magnate’s administrator, who has some idea of the mysteries of religion and other such things, unlike the lumberjacks. It is after one such conversation with the administrator that Israel discovers that the death of Jesus, the Christian Messiah, was also a part of God’s plan. Jesus had to be crucified, for otherwise the action of salvation could not have gotten under way. It is strange, but in some twisted way, it does make sense. Israel thinks about it for a long time, struck by the similarity to Sabbatai Tzvi, who had to let himself be imprisoned, had to put on a turban and be willing to go into exile. The Messiah has to fall as low as possible, otherwise he isn’t the Messiah. Israel returns with a heavy cart but a light heart.
The flow of pilgrims into Sobla and Israel’s yard has stopped completely now. People have begun to fear public miracles; better if they take place concealed somewhere. But Pesel and Freyna do not come to see Yente any less often, although Pe
sel is preparing for her wedding, the engagement ceremony having just taken place; the boy, like her, is thirteen years old. She saw him twice, and he struck her as pleasant, if a bit immature. She and her sister are embroidering tablecloths now; Freyna will be getting married soon enough, in any case. Sometimes Pesel, when it was still warm, would bring her sewing to her grandmother’s, as she calls Yente, and work near her. She would tell her all kinds of stories, confide her plans. That she would like, for example, to live in a big city and be a great lady. Have her own carriage and dresses embellished with lace, and a small silk bag where she would keep a perfumed handkerchief, because she doesn’t really know what else a person would keep in such a little bag. Now, however, it is too cold. Her fingers get so frozen they can no longer maneuver the needles. The dewdrops on Yente’s body transform into ice crystals, tiny and gorgeous. Pesel discovered this. She would pick them up on her finger, and before they melted, she would take them up to the window, into the sunlight. For a moment, she would behold those miracles. Whole palaces of crystals, whiter than the snow, glittering with glass, chandeliers, cut-glass chalices . . .
“Where did you see all that? In a snowflake?” Freyna wonders. But one day she carefully takes a snowflake onto her fingertip and looks at it under the sun. It is a miracle, exceptionally large, almost the size of a small coin like a grosz. Its crystal beauty disappears in a flash, a beauty not of this world, and thus destroyed by human warmth. But thanks to this one brief instant, it is possible to glimpse that other, higher world, to reassure yourself that it is there.
How is it possible that the frost doesn’t get the better of Yente? Israel checks a couple of times, especially in the mornings, when the trees are cracking from the cold. But Yente is barely even cool. Frost settles on her lashes and brows. Sometimes Sobla comes, too, covers herself up with sheepskin and dozes off.
The Books of Jacob Page 39
